Regression to the Mean
by WhiteDahlia13
Summary: Lydia is having a difficult time trying to come to terms with the changes she notices in her relationship with Stiles. Takes place throughout Season 4. A bit of angst, but as always, unapologetically 100% pure Stydia. Refers to Episodes: The Tell, Formality, Ice Pick, Abomination, Master Plan, Galvanize, The Dark Moon, 117, Orphaned, Weaponized, and Perishable
1. Introspection

**Refers to Episodes:** The Dark Moon (04x01), 117 (04x02)

 **3:46 AM**

Lydia Martin stands in the operating room of Deaton's clinic while Derek Hale clings tightly to her hand. After having spent hours crammed into the backseat of the Jeep, traveling from Mexico to Beacon Hills, she is exhausted, cranky, and aching all over. The physical assault on her body is magnified by a barrage of emotion which she is not particularly used to experiencing – pure jealousy – and it is all because of Stiles and Malia. Lydia has tolerated enough for one night. Between the inappropriately frequent contact between them and declarations about how neither would leave the other behind, she was close to becoming violently ill several times over the past few hours. Without Kira beside her for moral support, Lydia is sure she would have preferred to get out of the Jeep and walk home.

To make matters worse, a cloud of guilt hangs over her. Derek is lying in front of her. Derek, who has been regressed into a younger version of himself and now looks like a harmless teenage boy. She realizes her focus should be on him, but she can't stop replaying the previous night in her mind.

The trouble preceded the drive home, when the Jeep broke down in the middle of the desert. Lydia was rather put off by Stiles's attitude towards her. She had the distinct impression that although she was trying to be helpful, she was bothering him. First, he was hostile with her for not holding the flashlight still enough for his liking. Then, when she tried to explain that her hand was shaking – out of fear – he was completely unsympathetic. She tried to shrug off the hurt she felt at his tone, chalking it up to tiredness and frustration, but it wasn't as easy as she had assumed. What really bothered her though, the thing she couldn't let go of, was the fact that Stiles actually considered leaving her alone, in pitch darkness, so he could go chase after Malia.

Though Lydia isn't someone who is easily insulted, each of Stiles's jabs cut into her like razors, and hours later…the hurt is lingering. It is obvious that ever since he and Malia started spending time together, the dynamic of her own relationship with Stiles has been altered – and not for the better. To some extent, she guesses, a few of these changes were to be expected. She figured that Stiles might have less time for her and that what little time they did have, would not be spent alone. She also predicted that there would be a growing distance between them, physically…and unfortunately, she was correct on all fronts.

In recent weeks, she has not spent any time with Stiles outside of school. She notices he doesn't stand as close as he used to, doesn't reach to take her hand, and doesn't hug her anymore. Clearly, they've gone out of step with each other, often to the point of awkwardness, and Lydia is pretty sure the clumsiness between them has a name – Malia Tate.

Trying to adjust has been more difficult than Lydia imagined. A moment or two of physical contact with Stiles always made her feel safe, at ease, important. Without those moments, she feels a bit more lonely, anxious, and invisible with each day that passes. Without those touches, Lydia feels as though her body temperature is running a little lower than normal and no matter what she does, she can't get warm again.

But all of those unpleasant changes – none of them are a surprise. She hates them, but she realizes they were bound to happen. What Lydia never anticipated is that Stiles would become increasingly cold towards her. At times she observes a complacency in him that she has not seen before. He doesn't seem like the boy she knew – the one who used to have a massive crush on her, the one who became one of her best friends, the one to whom she wants to give her heart. _Her Stiles_ would have never told her to "just be slightly less terrified" and meant it. A few months ago, if he had said those words, she would have brushed it off and stepped right into their normal banter. His tone, an expression, or a simple touch would have communicated to her that he was not serious. Something about the way he spoke to her last night, told Lydia that Stiles was not joking. _Her Stiles_ would have never even considered leaving her behind – alone, in the dark, completely unprotected. _Her Stiles_ would have never been so indifferent to her – not after everything they had been through. Lydia is less than impressed with his new demeanor, and she certainly is not used to him hurting her so carelessly.

More than anything, she is upset with herself for permitting Stiles to weave himself so firmly into her life that she doesn't know, much less want to know, how to be without him…especially when she promised herself that she would never let that happen.

All along, her mind kept willing her to take a step back, to be careful not to get too attached to him. But her heart had other intentions. It begged her to seek his presence when she woke up in the middle of the night terrified, or when she couldn't figure out what her latest premonition meant, or when she simply needed a friend to listen without judgement. It pleaded with her to be there for him as well, to ease his pain if she could, to see him be happy as often as possible. Her heart, it appeared, was determined to remind her that Stiles was who she needed – long before she realized she was in love with him.

In the early morning hours, the clinic is cloaked in a blanket of silence, save the ticking of the wall clock and the pace of Derek's shallow, steady breaths. The quiet allows Lydia to ponder her jealousy. There is no other word she can think of to describe it. She had come to expect a certain kind of attention from Stiles, and watching him share this attention with Malia is making her painfully jealous. As selfish and childish as her reaction might seem, she can't help the way she feels, and she can't ignore it either. She is positive that she has never experienced any such envy when she saw Jackson or Aiden with other girls. Sure, it stung a bit, but it pales in comparison to the way she feels right now.

She chides herself for letting emotion get the better of her, but the truth of the matter is, she has never loved anyone the way she loves Stiles. It is the kind of love she and Allison had talked about; the kind where _you cannot breathe until you are with him._ Falling in love with Stiles was a slow burn, a gradual awakening of her soul – pure and all consuming. Somehow, in the process of becoming real friends, this boy took hold of her heart, piece by piece, until he fully claimed it. It was in doing so, that he had acquired the power to hurt her more than anyone ever could…and now, much to Lydia's dismay, he doesn't seem to want her heart any longer.

Regardless of the pain she is in, Lydia finds it impossible to be angry with Stiles. The only person she was angry with is herself. She has never told him that she is in love with him. The few times she had almost gathered the nerve to do so, she managed to find an excuse not to go through with it. In truth, she has done everything humanly possible to keep her love a secret. She has let fear dictate her actions – fear of rejection, fear that she will disappoint him, fear of losing him the way she has lost so many others. Fear has held her captive and kept her silent for months. And now, fear is not only thwarting the possibility of a loving relationship with Stiles, it is also taking a toll on the friendship they've already established – a friendship that was built from the ground up, that surrounds her with love and understanding, and gives her a strength she never knew she could possess. Aside from her friendship with Allison, her bond with Stiles is the dearest she has ever known, and it is slipping through her fingers.

 _What did I expect him to do…read my mind?_ she wonders. Actually, for quite some time, Lydia was convinced that he could. Stiles could interpret an expression of hers, identify a tone in her voice, observe a tell in her body language…and by some means, he was able to anticipate her next move or inclination. He has a way of looking at her that makes her feel as transparent as glass. With anyone else, that kind of exposure would make her feel vulnerable and uncomfortable, but with Stiles, it makes her feel real and alive. She craves that feeling, now more than ever. Having someone who could see her true self and still care about her – not _despite_ who she is, but _because_ _of_ who she is – that is a miraculous gift.

She has waited for Stiles; hoping he will see past the façade she so carefully established, recognize that she is head over heels in love, and be brave enough to make the first move. But he never has, and she has to ask herself why that is the case.

His new relationship makes Lydia painfully aware of the possibility that she has overestimated the bond they shared. _Maybe I misunderstood the entire situation. What if it was all in my head?_ She begins to wonder if she may have projected her feelings onto him. Maybe to Stiles, she is a childhood crush, turned teenage infatuation. Now that he has gotten to know her, he sees that she doesn't live up to the fantasy. Lydia seriously considers that she might have taken for granted that Stiles would always want to be there for her, making her feel safe and tethering her to the earth. _What if he's tired of waiting for me, and now he's ready to move on?_ The concept causes near crushing pain in her chest and siphons the heat from her body.

Lydia returns her attention to Derek, checking his pulse and gently smoothing his hair in place. He seems so innocent and defenseless as he sleeps – nothing like the courageous but stern and sullen werewolf that Scott and the pack have come to depend on. She recalls the many horrors he has lived through, the burdens he carries, and how they may have shaped him into the adult that he is today. In an odd way, teenage Derek reminds her of Stiles.

She thinks about how Stiles might change. He has already endured far more than the average person could be expected to handle, especially in the past few months. _Will there be a time when I won't recognize him anymore?_ _Is it fair to assume that Malia is the cause? What if it is my fault and has nothing to do with her? Maybe I've I hurt Stiles so often and so much that he decided to put distance between us?_

Closing her eyes and rubbing her temples, Lydia tries to erase the stream of questions from her mind. There is no way to get answers now, and she worries that if she does, she might not like the responses.

Though a vast amount of uncertainty is weighing on her, Lydia knows one thing for sure: she loves Stiles with all of her heart. His happiness is most important to her – not just because of the tragedies he has suffered, but also because of the genuinely amazing person he is. Countless times he has put his own needs aside for the people he cares about. She has witnessed, first-hand, how selflessly and unwaveringly he supported Scott while he transitioned from best friend, to newly-turned werewolf, to worthy Alpha and leader of their pack. She watched Stiles cheer from the sidelines as Scott became captain of the Lacrosse team, reveled in the magic of his first love, and overcame adversaries. She has noticed all of the ways he tries to take care of his dad, whether it be trying to persuade him to eat healthier, making sure the laundry is done, or always leaving a light on in the living room so he never has to walk into a dark house. She stood in awe as he willfully separated from the Nogitsune that threatened to twist him into something evil and inhuman. She has been touched by the way he encourages her to be herself and the way he shows her that she is more than her appearance; by the way he tries to make her laugh or help her understand being a banshee; by the way he truly listens to her and takes note of things that are important to her. He has already done more for her in a few years' time than any other has done in her entire life. Lydia knows she can't stop loving Stiles, even if she wanted to. So, if his happiness comes from being with someone else, then she is willing to keep her distance, she will try to be supportive – even if it means learning to live with a broken heart. In her mind, she owes it to him – she owes him everything, and Stiles owes her nothing.

When her need for rest becomes undeniable, Lydia lets go of Derek's hand, settles into a chair beside him, and drifts off to sleep. She still has a great deal to think about, but it will have to wait until daybreak.


	2. Resist

**Refers to Episodes:** Abomination (02x04), Galvanize (03x15), and 117 (04x02)

The next day is equally miserable. It begins the minute Lydia opens her eyes, when a very frightened Derek loses control and shifts, attacking Deaton in the process of fleeing the clinic. Later on, when she picks Kira up from school, fully intending to head to Scott's house, Lydia's instincts lead her to stop at a gas station (even though she already has a full tank of fuel) where she discovers a horribly disfigured corpse in the restroom.

As if that wouldn't have been enough trauma for one day, in the evening, she and Stiles end up in a creepy underground vault with Peter Hale (whom she despises), nothing in their possession to defend themselves with…except Stiles's baseball bat. The only good piece of news - Peter was too distracted by his own personal matter to be more than mildly annoyed by their presence.

* * *

 **9:02 PM**

Lydia and Stiles quietly walk out of the vault, leaving Peter behind to sulk about his stolen bearer bonds. A chill spreads over Lydia, and she instinctively wraps her arms around herself. Within seconds, she is sharply conscious of a hand on her shoulder - Stiles is guiding her through the darkness. The fact that his touch surprises her, speaks volumes.

A few months ago, the touch of his hand would have felt natural and comforting. Stiles has always been openly protective of her, but it is the subtle adjustments he makes that really affect her – placing a hand on her back when she is scared, squeezing her hand in a tense moment, stepping ever so slightly in front of her if he thinks she is in danger.

Tonight, even through the material of her jacket, his touch is painful, like a burn. It reminds Lydia of what she has been missing and manifests an ache so profound that it infiltrates every cell in her body. Maintaining focus on the ground beneath her feet, Lydia hopes its support will steady her legs. She quickens her step until she is out of his reach. A gnawing sensation inside reminds her that the current state of their relationship is her own fault, and she shivers with cold.

"I'll drive you home," Stiles says casually, as they cross in front of his Jeep.

"My car is at Kira's. If you bring me there, I can drive myself home," she replies glumly.

"Or, I could pick you up in the morning and you could get your car then," he suggests.

"That's not necessary. It will be out of your way."

"Lydia, it's fine. I don't mind."

"But–"

"Lydia, would you just let me drive you home? I want to make sure you get there safely," he interrupts.

"Depends on how you define _safely_ ," she scoffs. "Did you even have time to get the Jeep fixed? We'll probably get stuck somewhere between here and my house, and I just want to go home and get some sleep."

"As a matter of fact, I had it fixed this morning," he answers, irritation coloring his tone. "Why are you being so difficult?"

" _I'm_ being difficult?" she remarks, whipping around to face him and immediately regretting the eye contact. She breathes deeply in a vain attempt to calm herself. "You know what? Fine. We'll do whatever you want."

Lydia stomps over to the passenger side and pulls open the door, refusing to give Stiles the opportunity to open it for her, as he usually does. It crosses her mind that he might not have tried to do so, and the last thing she needs is further proof that their relationship is going awry. She plops her petite frame in the seat and slams the door, mumbling, "You get to make all the decisions for us now anyway."

Anger building, she buckles herself in and turns to stare out the window. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Stiles running a hand through his hair and slowly walking to the driver's side. He silently climbs in next to her; lips gathered into a pout and eyes examining her.

"Lydia, what's wrong? Did I do something?"

She doesn't answer.

"Lydia?" he repeats.

"Nothing is wrong. I'm tired," she lies, plastering a smile on her lips and taking her phone out of her purse. "I'll text Kira, so she knows I won't be picking up my car until tomorrow. Can we go now?"

Without another word, Stiles sets the key in the ignition and starts up the Jeep. Then the pair travel in uncomfortable silence for the next quarter of an hour. Lydia remembers how not long ago, they used to be able to sit for extended lengths, contented in the quiet of each other's presence. For her, during those spells, happiness came purely from being in his orbit. She would listen to the steady sound of his breathing, watch his facial expressions change as his mind linked two points, feel the warmth of his body in those moments when he was so near they were just shy of touching. She misses those moments. She misses Stiles.

Her mind swiftly conjures a memory – intangible evidence of what once was.

 _Lying on his bed, propped up on her elbows, Lydia coiled a strand of red yarn around her fingertips. She relaxed across his pillow, feeling him all around her. She was in his room, with his sheets and his blanket against her skin, purposefully working to identify the subtle traces of his scent that drifted from the pillow – a mix of pine needles, clean linen, and a pleasant note that she couldn't quite identify. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with him. Silence – as she watched Stiles methodically study his make-shift crime board, pen pressed into the pout that was forming on his lips. She could tell he was urgently working to draw a connection between the bits of information they had accumulated. Agitation building, he fretfully paced, rubbing at the nape of his neck. As he moved, she studied the way his light grey tee shirt glided over his torso and how the sleeves gently stretched over his upper arms. Even then, she longed to reach out for him. Her chest tightened with love, and Stiles turned to face her, as if he could also feel the tether towing him in her direction. She thought he was going to kiss her that night, but he didn't._

The noise of Stiles's thumb impatiently tapping on the steering wheel, redirects Lydia's attention to her surroundings. The comfort and ease of the night in her memory is a stark contrast to the present one. Such a comparison looms heavily and intensifies the lingering chill that penetrates her bones. Again, she rigidly covers her midsection with her arms.

She is aware that Stiles was repeatedly glancing over at her as she struggles to retain her own body heat. Though it is uncommonly hot that evening, he begins fiddling with the temperature controls until Lydia senses heat emanating from the vents. His attentiveness does not go unnoticed, but she is still too angry to let herself soften.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the view from her window, Lydia avoids meeting his eyes at all costs. She holds her purse in one hand, carefully preparing to make a quick departure. By the time Stiles parks in front of the Martin household, she has already unbuckled her seat belt. Her hand is poised to release the door handle, but his arm moves to stop her; his hand securely encircling her wrist.

"Lydia, could you just…wait? Don't go like this. Please, tell me what's wrong," he pleads in a low voice.

"Can we _not_ do this now?" she begs, still not trusting herself to look at him. She knows one peek at those beautiful brown eyes will have her in pieces. "Look, I'm tired. I just want to go to bed and forget about the last few days."

"No, it's more than that. You're angry with me. Come on, Lydia… You know I hate it when you're mad at me."

The sincerity in his voice makes Lydia more flustered. _How am I supposed to stay away from him when he is being so sweet and patient…and looking so gorgeous? Damn it!_ She quickly reminds herself to turn away, but her eyes are already transfixed.

"Why do you care?" she snaps, unable to shield her voice from the level of emotion that is forcing its way out of her.

"Oh, you're definitely angry with me! What kind of question is that?" he asks, hurt slashing through his words like a blade. "Of course, I care. We're friends… _Aren't we_?"

Lydia tenses. _Friends._ The word feels like an insult or a demotion. After everything – the hours spent side by side, the risks they have taken to save each other, the way he returned her kiss in the locker room – _she is only a friend to him_.

A mass of memories occupies her mind, preventing her from answering. Until Stiles points it out to her, she has no idea that tears are streaming down her face.

"Lydia, don't cry."

 _What happened to the boy who told me he thought I looked really beautiful when I cried_? she wonders, staring into her lap.

His hand remains on her wrist; his touch gentle, yet agonizingly hot. The heat is so intense, she thinks it might burn a hole in her skin. It leaves such an impression that she hardly notices when he lets go.

Stiles gets out of the Jeep and hurries around to the passenger side. He opens the door, taking Lydia's hands in his own. Within seconds, he is coaxing her onto the sidewalk and wrapping his arms around her. She resists for a moment, but the contact is too welcoming…and too longed for. Her weakness for him prevails, and she lets him embrace her.

To Lydia, it has been an eternity since Stiles last held her. She yearns to savor it with every sense possible; hearing his heart pound in his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing in the scent of him until she can almost taste it. She wants to stay locked in his arms forever, but he eventually breaks from the hug, taking every last measure of heat with him.

He bends down to meet her gaze. "I know I said you look beautiful when you cry…and you do…but I can't stand it if I'm the reason you are crying," he explains, taking her face in both hands. "Please stop. Lydia, you're breaking my heart."

The irony of his statement is astounding but she disregards it because there he is again – _her Stiles_ – the boy that can dissolve every one of her inhibitions with a word, a smile, or a touch. The love she has for him expands; reaching up from her core, grabbing her by the throat, and compelling her to bare her soul to him.

Fearing what she might be tempted to confess, Lydia seeks to redirect the focus from herself. "I got your shirt all wet," she comments.

"That doesn't matter. Tell me what's wrong. I need to know what I did…so I can fix it," he begs, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"I…well…" she hesitates, her mind grasping for a plausible excuse for her behavior.

"Lydia, _the truth_ …" he stresses.

"The truth is I…I can't tell you. It wouldn't be right."

"Yes, you can. You can tell me anything."

"No, not this!" she contends more forcefully, shrugging away from him and heading for the front door.

Her hands are shaking so ferociously the she can barely get the keys out of her purse and when she finally does, she drops them. The clanking sound of metal against stone makes her jump. She reaches down to retrieve the keys. Tears splatter the doorstep like raindrops. Faster than she can blink her saturated eyes to clarity, Stiles is beside her again – keys in his right hand, and his left covering both of hers to quiet them. He opens the door, waits for her to enter, and follows her inside.

"Stiles…go home. I don't need your pity," she instructs, flicking on the lights.

" _This_ is most definitely not pity, and _no_ …I'm not leaving until we talk. I know you are tired, but this is too important," he insists, closing the door behind him.

"Why?" she questions, nervously watching him move towards her.

"Because I care about you. You know that… Don't you?"

He is standing so close – too close for her to maintain her resolve and she urgently needs to put space between them, or else she might say something she won't be able to take back. Quickly she ascends the steps, trying to ignore the fact that Stiles is close on her heels. She reaches the top step and heads for her bedroom, trying to calculate how many times he may have followed her up that same staircase and down that same hallway over the past few years in order to make sure she was safe. Consequently, she is met with a series of memories that spring up from beneath her like wildflowers; each unique and meaningful; each a reminder of the beauty that was – asserting their way into her consciousness and tormenting her as they wither away.

"Lydia, wait," he calls, still following her trajectory.

She arrives at the threshold a few seconds ahead of Stiles, and hastily decides to use the advantage against him. Turning on a dime, she plants herself in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other on the door.

"But things are different now. I can't tell you everything." A lethal combination of exhaustion and sentiment causes her to blurt out words she never meant to say. "Anyway, it's not like we are a couple." She starts pushing the door closed but Stiles braces his foot in the doorway; one last maneuver to make entry.

"Lydia…come on…I…"

"Stiles, please just leave me alone," she implores softly.

"But—"

 _"Please."_

His face changes shape before her eyes; concern twisting into offence. "Is that what you really want?"

The pain in his eyes is apparent. Knowing her own actions are the cause makes Lydia feel like a monster, but she can't risk giving in to him for fear that Stiles will figure out what she is so desperately trying to hide. "Yeah, that's what I want," she whispers through trembling lips.

He grudgingly steps back, and Lydia wastes no time shutting the door. She leans her head against it, seeking its solidity to prevent her from crashing to the floor. A light sound against the wooden barricade tells Lydia that Stiles has put his hand up to the door.

"I'll be here to pick you up in the morning," he assures her, voice filtering through the medium. "Lydia, whatever I did, I'm sorry."

The way his voice cracks over the words _I'm sorry_ makes her think he might be crying. She puts her hand to the surface, imagining his on the opposite side of the grain. She immediately wants to tear the door open, so she can fall back into his arms…but she promised herself she would keep her distance and that is what she intends to do.

Another minute passes, followed by the sound of footsteps announcing his departure. Lydia knows that Stiles has literally given her every opportunity to confide in him, and she hates herself for resisting. She waits until she hears the front door close before uttering the words she so desperately wants to say - _I love you_. Her legs give out from under her. She slides down to her knees, shattered with grief and regret. The dam has breached, and a waterfall of tears cascades over her lashes.


	3. Refraction

**7:15 AM**

Lydia is somewhere between sleep and awake when she thinks she hears a knock at her bedroom door. She has already decided that she needs another day to recuperate from the unpleasant trip to Mexico. One of the many benefits of having an unblemished GPA, is that she can take a day or two off from school without creating any waves. If she is absent, her teachers always assume she has a good reason, and her mother more or less trusts her to make good decisions when it comes to her education…plus, she is hardly ever around…so how would she even know. Having effectively persuaded herself that the sound is merely a remnant of a dream, she ignores the disturbance and unsuccessfully tries to drift back to sleep.

After a few minutes, she opens her eyes to check the alarm clock. Though it is after 7, the room is rather dark. She reaches across the bed, grabs the edge of her curtains and lifts them aside. The sky is a gloomy shade of grey – in other words, a perfect reflection of her current mood and further indication that she should stay home. She rolls to the middle of the bed with a sigh. A lazy day at home is exactly what she needs to restore herself, and as a bonus, it definitely won't hurt to have another day apart from Stiles and Malia.

Before long, the knocking sound resumes. Only this time, it is followed by an all too familiar voice.

"Lydia, are you awake?"

Her chest automatically tenses as she remembers the previous evening. "I am trying not to be," she groans.

"Can I come in?" Stiles asks, but without waiting for an answer, he opens the door and steps into the room, tripping over a pair of her ankle boots in the process.

When Lydia sits up, she can see that his eyes are tightly closed. The performance is so _Stiles_ , she has to stifle a laugh. "You can open your eyes you know… I'm decent."

"Oh…good," he remarks, obviously mortified by the clumsy entrance.

Typically, she would take a few moments to admire how adorable Stiles looks when he is embarrassed – cheeks tinted to a soft shade of red, hands shoved deep into his pockets, soulful brown eyes dodging contact with hers – but not today. Today, she is afraid it will soften her. Today, she hates the fact that she loves that about him because it makes it more difficult to mask her feelings.

"Stiles, what are you doing here?" she inquires, letting her hair down from the loose topknot that had confined it while she slept.

"I'm dropping you off at Kira's, so you can pick up your car on the way to school. Remember?" he answers, cautiously moving in the direction of her bed.

Lydia takes note of his expression. It's one she almost doesn't recognize because she hasn't seen it in a long time. It tells her that Stiles is uneasy in her presence, and she hates it. She hates it because it's her fault.

"I'm not going to school," she mutters, flopping onto her pillow, strawberry blonde locks encircling her head like a giant halo.

"Why not? Are you sick?" Alarm pierces through his voice, and his demeanor quickly changes as he sits alongside her and touches his palm to her forehead.

"No, I just don't feel like going," she replies, pushing his hand aside. He is already too near, and the fluttering in her stomach is flaring up.

"Lydia that's not like you – especially since you already missed school yesterday." Stiles looks down at her pensively, and it makes her uncomfortable.

It's strange to feel as though she needs to hide herself from him, but she figures she will have to get used to it because there is no way she can tell him how she feels…now that he has moved on to someone else.

Frustration begins to build in her tone. "I can afford to skip another day. I'm ahead in all of my classes, so…go ahead without me."

"Alright, that's it. Enough of this! I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on with you."

"Then _you_ are going to be _really_ late for school because _I_ don't feel like talking," she insists.

"If I have to sit here all day, so be it," he quips, stubbornly folding his arms across his chest.

"Stiles, _please don't start this again_ ," she says, throwing her floral duvet over her head.

"Lydia, come on! This is getting ridiculous!" He seizes the fabric and peels it away from her until she is totally uncovered.

Though she is wearing full-length pajama pants and a tank top, Lydia suddenly feels overexposed. The chill in her bones returns. She sits up, arms outstretched in an attempt to reclaim possession of her cotton armor, but Stiles leans over her body, preventing her from retrieving it and drenching her in his presence.

 _"Stiles, quit it!"_

"No, Lydia," he refuses, resolutely leaning nearer and invading her space more deliberately.

Lydia's breath catches in her throat and for a second, she thinks his has too. Her eyes widen at his insolence, but she can't back down. Before she can think about her next move, they are wrestling for ownership of her bedding like two children fighting over a toy. Within moments, irrepressible laughter fills the room. Stiles has Lydia pinned underneath him, each of his hands laced with hers as he holds them over her head. Their eyes lock and she is completely floored. Stiles is in her bed, lying on top of her, and she finally feels warm again and full of life. The butterflies continue to make their presence known, and she is so completely drunk with love for him that her head is spinning, yet she cannot wipe the smile from her face.

"There they are," he notes, raising an eyebrow.

She gives him a questioning look.

"Your dimples."

"Stiles…" she rolls her eyes.

"Don't get annoyed. I haven't seen you smile like this in a long time and they're… _you're_ beautiful," he tells her with a shy grin.

The compliment makes Lydia simultaneously weak and bold – weak all over her body from the tingling sensation that is threatening to make her confess her love, but bold enough to lock eyes with him a bit longer – challenging him to do the same. Fire rises in her cheeks and she grows mindful of the contact between their bare abdomens, where both of their shirts have rolled up during the scuffle.

His eyes dart around her face as though he is searching for a response. Gradually he hovers closer, staring at her with such intensity that she is sure he is going to kiss her. The possibility that Stiles might still want her stirs a yearning so deep she can't not find the bottom of it. She wonders if kissing him would be like the first time. She wants nothing more than to see the small space between them extinguished, but her instinct is nagging at her not to let him – that it would be a mistake right now – and she never wants a kiss between the two of them to be a mistake.

Selfishly, she thinks of Stiles as _hers_ – after all, they share a history that goes back long before either of them knew Malia existed. But if Lydia is going to be with Stiles, she has to be sure there is no one else he wants but her. As much as it hurts to admit, her rational side recognizes that Stiles is attracted to Malia, that he could be confused about his feelings, that he might need time to sort things out, and that he deserves the chance to decide for himself. She knows it wouldn't be fair of her to let things escalate or to unload her feelings on him at this particular moment.

Stiles has a habit of putting everyone else's needs ahead of his own. The last thing she wants is to influence his decision by making him feel obligated to her out of some selfless need to see her be happy again, or for fear that she is too fragile to face rejection. And frankly, if she considers it, Lydia definitely feels too fragile. The idea of Stiles turning away from her is more than she can handle. She bites down on her lip to shock herself back to reality.

"Stiles…" she says breathlessly, "…Stiles, I think you should let me go." The words pass her lips with a tone that implies a deeper meaning than she intended, and she instantly regrets them. She wonders how Stiles may interpret her words and what the consequences are going to be.

Despondently, she watches the desire fade from his face. He lets go of her hands, untangling himself from her and the covers. "I'm sorry, Lydia." He moves to the edge of the bed. "I didn't mean to…"

Lydia sits up, cradling her knees to her chest. "I know but…"

"…it wouldn't be right," he finishes.

Those few words force the breath from her lungs. _Did he just admit that he wanted to kiss me?_ Even though she believes she has done the right thing, Lydia is furious with herself. If she had only stayed quiet, Stiles might have gone through with it. _Why does loving him have to hurt so much?_

"No, I guess not," is the only response she can muster.

"What's happening to us?" he whispers, focusing intently on his hands.

It hurts to know he feels it too – things are not the same between them. "I don't know, but it's like something is shifting."

"So much that you don't want to tell me what's upsetting you? 'Cause Lydia, that's not okay with me. We always talk…about everything. I hate seeing you like this, and I really can't stand it…if I did something…if I hurt you…I need to know what it is."

She takes a breath to steady herself and tries very carefully to choose her words. "It's… I've been feeling kind of…lost. I miss Allison – more than I can put into words. Ever since she…without her, I know I've constantly been leaning on you…probably too much. It was fine before, but now…I think I'm in the way. Like…maybe you don't have room for me in your life anymore."

He turns to face her, eyebrows cinched in at the center and mouth slightly agape. "Lydia…I—"

She puts her hands up to stop him. "Let me finish. I know how self-centered that sounds. You have other people in your life. It's not all about me…and that's how it should be…but it's still difficult to deal with the fact that things are changing," she explains, trying to hide behind the curtain of hair that has cascaded from her crown. "I feel like…like I'm losing you, and I just…miss you. I'm sorry."

He places a warm hand on her forearm, rubbing his thumb across her wrist. "Hey, first of all, you are not losing me. I'm right here…and you never have to apologize to me – for anything – but especially not for leaning on me. I want you to. Second…look at me…Lydia Martin, there will _always_ be room for you in my life. You are one of the best people in it and…I don't ever want to find out what it…what _I_ would be like without you. You're too important to me. Nothing and _no one_ will ever change that. Do you hear me?"

"I'm sure you mean that…now, but it will change once you're more involved with...her." She can't bring herself to say the name aloud, as though doing so somehow validates the hold Malia has on Stiles or gives more power to all the anxiety Lydia currently associates with her name. "It's already happening."

"I don't understand what you mean. What's already happening?"

"You were going to leave me," her throat clenches around the words as she grudgingly grants them passage.

"What?"

"In Mexico, when she ran off…you were going to leave me behind," she answers in a low voice, ducking her head away from his stare.

"I would _never_ do that," he swears, tightening his grip on her arm.

"You were going to," she maintains. Her heart is pounding with anxiety at the vulnerability she is displaying.

"Lydia, it was just a reaction. I would have never gone that far. I could never leave you alone like that. Something always pulls me back to you."

His explanation does little to ease the pain that throbs in her chest. Stiles might not have left her, but it makes her unhappy to think that he had only stayed with her out of obligation; she wants him to be with her by choice. "Do I hold you back…from doing what you really want?"

"No…that's not how I meant it. It's hard to explain. That pull I feel towards you…it grounds me, helps things make sense, it makes us… _us_. We take care of each other. It's different with her. I'm sort of responsible for her…you know…helping her adjust – sort of like an anchor."

A pang of jealously rears up and Lydia purses her lips to prevent a question from slipping out of her mouth. _Is she your anchor too now? …because I thought I was._

"You know, like you are for me," he continues, reaching out to push her hair behind her shoulder.

His intuitiveness is a vivid reminder that no matter how she tries to keep things to herself, Stiles always manages to detect her innermost thoughts. She doesn't understand how he can be so blind to the fact she is in love with him and so aware of everything else. _Perhaps he does see it,_ she thinks _, but the feeling isn't mutual._

"Am I? I mean… What if I'm not anymore?" she asks, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

"Of course you still are. You helped me save my dad, you were the tether that brought me back to life, it was you that found me when I was missing, and you who helped me separate from the Nogitsune. I don't think there's any chance of that changing, and honestly…I don't want it to. Do you?"

"No. I know how significant it is to have someone who can be that for you…because you are mine. I'm glad you can do that for her…" Lydia says, making a genuine effort to sound sincere.

She surprises herself when she realizes she actually means it. The truth is that while she doesn't particularly like Malia, she doesn't exactly hate her either. It isn't like she deserves what happened to her. Lydia is pleased that someone can help her, and she could certainly understand why it would be Stiles with whom she formed an attachment – he would have been her first choice.

On the other hand, while she might understand the attachment, it doesn't mean she has to like it. She takes in a sharp breath, "…but I think there's more to it than that."

"Maybe…but the whole thing is pretty new to me. I don't know…I think I should at least…see where it goes."

"You should. I want you to be happy."

"I want that for you too…and in case you don't know… _you_ make me happy." He rises from the bed and holds out his hands for her.

She reluctantly accepts them and stands in front of him. "Even though I'm difficult?"

Stiles screws his mouth into a pout. "You're not really mad about that are you? Because I didn't mean it, I was…frustrated that you didn't want me to take you home. Your house is freaking massive, and you are always there alone…and I worry about you," he responds bashfully.

"No, I'm not mad…maybe a little hurt though."

He waits for her to continue.

"It's just…lately, you're so uneasy around me – like I'm getting on your nerves and…maybe you want some space from me."

He tightens his grip on her hands. "The last thing I want is space from you. But you're right though, I have been extra anxious lately and I think that's why I've been losing my patience so easily. That's all on me though…and I'm sorry for it. It's just…I'm on edge all of the time…because…well…I know a I'm a constant reminder of what happened to Allison, and I feel so responsible for the pain you are going through."

She steps closer to him and risks a look into his eyes. "Stiles, I've told you – none of it was your fault. Please don't think I blame you…because I could never."

"Everyone keeps telling me that, but it's not so easy to believe. I'm still working on it. I should have known you would pick up on all the tension I am carrying…but Lydia, I never meant to hurt you. Do you forgive me?"

"I thought you said we don't have to apologize to each other…remember?"

He shakes his head. "No, that strictly a one-way street because from my perspective, you can do no wrong. I, on the other hand, screw up on a daily basis."

"That's not true. I've done plenty of things I regret…and you don't screw up on a daily basis."

"Maybe only every other day then," he jests, his eyes searching for a smile from her.

"Maybe," she teases.

Stiles, who has not let go of her hands, tries to pull Lydia into a hug, but she keeps her feet securely planted.

"Please let me," he prompts. "It's not an official make-up otherwise, and…I want to hold you."

"And I want you to, but I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because of…what we talked about and…"

"Lydia, come here."

"Stiles…"

"Come on. It's alright. _Please_."

Lydia is afraid to surrender, but Stiles is weakening her every defense. His hands are warm, his eyes are twinkling with amber flecks, and his expression is so open, and inviting…and sweet…so she lets him. She lets him hold her because she needs him to, because it might be an eternity until the next time he wants to, because having his arms around her is better than anything…and because he said _please_. When Stiles says that word, there is nothing she can deny him.

The embrace has a powerful effect, causing her to fall deeper in love by the second. Lydia quickly gives into the experience of it – his face buried in her neck and his palms against the exposed skin at the small of her back. She is captivated by the feeling of his heart pounding against hers – perfectly in sync. Her head is telling her to stop, but her heart is forcefully begging her for more.

"Are we okay?" he asks, breath tickling her neck.

"I think so."

"That's not the answer I was hoping for. You were supposed to say, 'Yes', without the smallest shadow of doubt in your tone." The vibration of his voice against her skin travels all of the way to her soul, she can feel it burrowing into a sacred place inside – the one that holds out hope for them.

"I don't think we can be sure. That's not how life works. We have to just try harder."

"Okay," he agrees, holding her at arm's length to look at her. "Whatever it takes, because _this_ is worth it to me."

 _Me too_ , she thinks, but she can't say it. She simply drops her head to his chest and holds onto Stiles like it is going to be her last chance.

After a while, he breaks from the embrace, rubbing her shoulders as a mischievous smirk crosses his lips. "Well…I don't know about you, but I find that confronting all of this emotion is pretty draining." He kicks off his shoes and flops into the center of her bed, looking rather pleased with himself.

Lydia crosses her arms, feigning annoyance. "Make yourself at home, why don't you!"

"Thanks, I will," he replies, nestling into the coziness of her pillows and shooting a challenging look her way.

She loves it when he does that.

"Come lie down…so I don't feel guilty for hogging your bed."

She tilts her head, shaping her mouth into a weak frown.

"Okay," he says in a playful tone. "Your loss. It's _really_ comfy though – way better than mine."

"Move over," she huffs before climbing in next to him, entirely aware of the gamble she is taking with her heart.

They settle next to each other, lying on their backs. Lydia tries to remain at a safe distance, but even with a few inches between them she can feel the warmth she craves emanating directly from his arm. Stiles begins tapping his fingers on the bed. The movement sends out a constant wave of tremors that connects his hand to hers, making her painfully conscious of how much closer she wants to be.

"Stiles!" she sighs.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry – it's a habit."

"I know but could we just… _be still_ for a bit."

"Yeah, sure. Sorry," he repeats.

"Stop apologizing. Just relax."

While initially the atmosphere is less than tranquil, the longer the silence lasts, the more comfortable it feels. Relaxing into the quiet, Lydia takes in her surroundings. Her curtains sway in the cool spring breeze that flows through the open window. The sound of Stiles's breathing is slow and steady. It lets her know that he is at ease now too, which makes her brave enough to sneak a glance his way.

His face is already turned towards hers and Lydia is immediately spellbound by the way he is staring at her. She hasn't seen that look in quite some time and it pierces her heart like an arrow. Offering him a grin, she timidly deflects her eyes to something bright above. The sun has broken through the cloud-covered sky. Gradually it infuses the room with daylight while the crystals on her bedside lamp act like prisms, refracting rainbows on the ceiling. The sight gives Lydia pause. Stiles, she believes, is able to understand her in a comparable fashion – breaking down the image she presents to the world and cleverly processing each of the fragments from within to reveal the true essence of herself. His very existence makes her a better person, and the way he just looked at her makes her feel as lovely as the splashes of color that are dispersed overhead.

She catches his gaze once more, then redirects her eyes at the ceiling, encouraging him to do the same. Stiles follows suit; a sweet smile spreading across his face as he acquires her perspective – and then his hand stirs, expertly finding hers over the mess of sheets beneath them and locking their fingers together. Lydia lets the fire from his touch spread outwards from her hand. It swathes her in a blanket of desire, sending her mind places that commonsense would tell her it should not go. But no one ever said love is sensible and Lydia is helplessly falling deeper. More than anything she has ever wanted for herself, she wishes to spend the majority of her days just being still with Stiles.


	4. Embers

**Refers to Episode:** Formality (01x11)

 **10:16 AM**

"Well, I'm definitely late, so there's no point in going to school now," Stiles comments.

"You wouldn't be late if you hadn't spent the last two hours sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling," Lydia teases.

"I was contemplating," he responds with a mock tone of offense.

"I could tell."

"Hey, where are your keys?"

"Why?"

"I think I'll go to Kira's and pick up your car."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know, but I don't mind."

"I could come with, if you want," she offers.

"Yeah, sure. I'd like that. We could stop for breakfast on the way… What do you think?"

A few hours alone, and the ease between them has returned. It feels so good that Lydia agrees without even thinking about it. "I need to shower first, but I can be ready in twenty."

"Okay. I'll just stay here…" he says with a yawn, stretching his arms overhead, "…nice and comfy…in your bed."

She jabs him gently with her elbow, gets up from the bed, and walks over to the closet where she reaches for her favorite jeans and a pretty, white lace top. Then she moves to her dresser. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that Stiles is watching as she selects her underwear, his brows arched with curiosity. Hesitating for a fraction of a second, she decides there is no need to be discrete about what she was doing. Besides, if she has to be fully cognizant of what she is missing out on – every second of every day, then Stiles can get a tiny peek at what he was missing as well. She flashes a signature look his way, so he'll know she hasn't missed a trick, then crosses the room to the adjoining bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Lydia finds she is nervous as she gets herself ready. The energy is influencing her to move at a quickened pace and she knows it's because she is rushing to get back to Stiles. Thankful that she washed her hair the previous night, she pulls it into a topknot and showers in record time. After dressing, she decides to abbreviate her makeup routine down to the bare minimum – moisturizer, curled lashes, sheer eye shadow, and rose-pink gloss. She lets her hair down and combs it through, then finishes with a mist of her favorite scent; floral with a hint of vanilla.

When Lydia reenters her room, Stiles is standing by her nightstand, holding a silver picture frame that houses a photo of them. He turns when he hears her behind him. "I texted Scott to let him know we're taking the day off," he informs her.

"Good. He'd have been worried otherwise."

"You look pretty", he remarks.

"Thanks," she says sweetly, briefly flashing her dimples at him.

His eyes linger on her for a few more seconds, then he shifts them back to the photo. "This was Scott's birthday, wasn't it?" Stiles asks, pointing at the candid image.

"Yeah," she answers, suddenly struck with the memory of that day. "I don't know how Allison took that photo without us knowing. She gave it to me a few days later."

She intentionally refrains from telling Stiles that Allison had attached a note to the reverse side of the image. The message, though brief, spoke volumes. It read: _Because I know how you feel about him, and because you should always remember how happy he made you last night. Love you, A_

Lydia is reminded of how glad she is that she thought to save the note. Occasionally, she removes it from the frame just to hold that small, but meaningful, piece of paper as concrete proof of their friendship. She studies the graceful style of Allison's handwriting and traces every curve and undulation with her fingertips. She imagines the sound of her friend's voice speaking those words, and for a minute or two, Lydia can pretend that Allison isn't gone. It's been a while since she performed that soothing ritual. She makes a mental note to do so when she is alone.

Allison had a knack for understanding and speaking to Lydia's nature. She would listen to and advise her friend without ever pushing or prying. Lydia reminisces about one of the last conversations they had. Allison had helped Lydia gather the courage to tell Stiles that she loved him. She was able to shine a light on the fact that Lydia wasn't protecting anyone by denying what she felt. She opened Lydia's eyes to the fact that she was only hurting herself and Stiles in the process. Lydia promised her friend that as soon as Stiles was himself again, she would take the leap. But in a matter of days, Allison was gone, and Lydia was so consumed with anguish that she shut down completely.

Ever since, Lydia has not been able to shake the impression that she is dishonoring Allison's memory. Her life was cut short. She will never have the chance to reunite with Scott. Lydia has Stiles right in front of her, but she continues to let fear hold her in contempt. She can hear Allison's voice calling to her: _What are you waiting for?_ _He's right there_. _You love each other._

"Lydia are you okay?" Stiles asks with apparent concern.

"Mm? Oh…sorry, I was…remembering."

"Allison," he says quietly.

She nods, wiping a stray tear.

"Sorry, I know how much you miss her. I didn't mean to… We don't have to talk about this."

"No, it's okay… It helps. Talking about her…makes her seem…not so far away. What were you saying?"

"That it was a great day – one of the best. The four of us were together, we went bowling and drove up to Cannon Creek for a bit," he recalls.

"Then, we decided to give Scott and Allison some time alone, so we went to the arboretum."

"We spent the rest of the afternoon, just the two of us, lying in the grass…watching the clouds. We talked for hours, didn't we? About everything and nothing at all." He takes a few steps towards her.

"Yeah, we did…until one of the staff told us we had better leave…or else we would get locked in for the night," she goes on, resisting the temptation to match his advance.

"I took a detour instead of driving you straight home. I left the Jeep running with the head lights and radio on, and you let me convince you to dance with me."

"You didn't have to try that hard. I wanted to," she admits.

"Did you know you were the first girl I ever danced with? ...At the formal…sophomore year…" he tells her, bashfully averting his eyes and poking the rug with the tip of his sneaker.

"I didn't realize that."

"Remember how the battery died? I was sure I had ruined the whole day and that you were going to be so mad at me, but..."

"I wasn't. It was nice to have an excuse to be together for a bit longer," she finishes for him.

"Yeah it was. We walked miles to the station to meet my dad, and when I held your hand…" he reminds her, taking her hand in his.

"You noticed how cold I was, so you gave me your jacket. The sky was perfectly clear that night… Wasn't it? It felt like the stars were closer than usual…" Lydia's voice trails off as tears sting her eyes. Her heart is fiercely pounding against her rib cage. Emotion threatens to overwhelm her – from the memory, from being so near, from wanting to express how much she loves him. She hears Allison's voice again: _Don't repeat my mistake. You may never get another chance._ She opens her mouth to speak. It seems like it is going to be now or never, and she doesn't want it to be never. "Stiles…"

"Yeah, Lydia…" His eyes are glistening.

"I…"

An unexpected buzzing sound makes Lydia jump.

Realizing it is his phone, Stiles quickly removes the device from his pocket and silences it. "Sorry about that. I thought it was already on silent," he apologizes.

As he pushes the phone into his pocket, Lydia can see that the caller ID reads "Malia". She takes the interruption as a sign that she should stop talking and every ounce of resolve she had composed drifts through the open window.

"Should you get that?" she asks, hoping the hurt is not coloring her tone.

"No, we're talking. Go ahead…"

She steps backwards and clears her throat. "I…was just going to say…that we should get going."

Stiles studies her carefully. Evidently, her response is less than convincing. "Lydia, are you sure? It seemed much more important than that."

"Yeah, of course," she alleges, deliberately lightening her tone. Then she picks up her boots and slips into them; fiddling with the zippers is a perfect means to avoid eye contact. "Anyway, if I know you, you're probably starving by now…even though you ate before you came here."

"Well, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so why not have two of them?" Stiles jests feebly. His face is serious, and his tone is punctured by inauthentic levity. He is still very prudently examining her.

She rolls her eyes. "Let's get going. You get grumpy when you're hungry." Then she grabs her pale pink suede purse, takes his hand, and leads him out the door.

* * *

The pair are quiet for the duration of the drive. All the while, Lydia is preoccupied with the notion that Stiles wants to hold her hand. He was reluctant to let go when they reached the Jeep, and ever since he took his place in the driver's seat, he has continued to peer over at her. She wants to reach out to him, but she keeps her arms wrapped firmly around her abdomen. Malia's call was a setback, and Lydia feels herself growing colder by the minute. She has a nagging sensation that if she lets her guard down for too long, she will be setting herself up for more pain and disappointment.

As they are stopped at a traffic light, Stiles speaks. "I was thinking… How about we get breakfast to go and take it over to the arboretum? Might be nice…I mean, if you want."

Lydia's first intention is to decline. She regrets having committed to breakfast, but his choice of location catches her off guard, causing her to make a mistake. Without thinking, she turns to face him and she sees _her Stiles_ – lips parted ever so slightly, eyebrows raised, hint of red on his cheeks. He is wearing his hopeful look; one of his many expressions to which she has no defense. She doesn't want to hurt him. He obviously chose the gardens because of the conversation they had earlier, but in her current mood, Lydia is unwilling to let herself trust that the memory means something more to him, so she chalks it up to nostalgia. She supposes that one meal together won't be too damaging and tells herself that she can always leave if things become too uncomfortable. She is hungry anyhow, and it doesn't really matter where they eat.

"It's nice enough weather for it. Sounds good." Fearing what else that face of his can persuade her to agree to, Lydia resumes staring out the window.

* * *

 **11:14 AM**

When they arrive at the arboretum, Lydia is surprised at how well Stiles remembers their last visit. He takes her to the same spot they had picnicked last time – directly under a giant oak that borders the stream. He sets down a blanket for them and they sit together under the shaded shelter of the tree. Its long arching branches are beginning to develop bright green leaves and sunshine gracefully trickles through the boughs, creating delicate patterns on the ground below. Once they start chatting, Lydia is so content that she doesn't want to leave. She has warmed up considerably, the birds are singing above them, the running stream making music just beneath, and the entire area is so serene that she feels as though they are the only two people in the world.

* * *

 **2:32 PM**

Several hours swiftly pass, during which Lydia notices Stiles is using the time to inch closer to her. Eventually he decides to lie down, resting his head against her leg. At first, she tenses. Allowing him that close is not exactly her idea of being careful or keeping herself at a safe distance. But as soon as he glances up at her and asks, "Is this okay?", every reservation she has evaporates and she nods.

She is sure there is some undeniable force tightening its grip on her when her hands naturally found their way to his hair. She runs her fingertips through the short, silky strands, coaxing them in different directions while she listens to Stiles excitedly talk about baseball – maybe this season would finally be the one for the Mets; a long shot maybe, but a definite possibility. It's difficult not to apply the logic to her current situation. She smiles down at him, feeling the hope he inspires lightening her burden.

Later on, they take a lazy stroll along the visitor's path. When they see children running around the great lawn, they realize school is out for the day, so they veer off to follow the stream. At some point, Lydia figures they must have covered the entire grounds, but Stiles seems determined to find excuses to stay, and she is more than willing to placate him.

* * *

 **4:56 PM**

After Stiles buys them ice cream at one of the local shops, they make their way back to the Jeep. As she reaches for the door handle, Stiles simultaneously steps in to open the door for her, and Lydia finds herself sandwiched between his body and the passenger's side.

By that point, the late afternoon sun has turned everything it touches to gold. It reflects off the blades of new grass, dances across the surface of the stream, and most notably, it lights up his eyes, exposing glints of gold from within. It strikes her that his eyes are unquestionably the most gorgeous she has ever seen. She watched as their color subtly transforms before her – from deep brown to radiant amber…and everything in between. An intense fluttering sensation rages through her stomach but she can't tear her eyes away from Stiles. He seems to be towering over her, making her knees unsteady and pressing her heart to beat faster.

When his hand moves up to her cheek, she does not know what to expect. Blissfully terrified, her desire to see his beautiful face battles against the urge to shut her eyes. What happens next, only takes a few seconds, but to Lydia, time slows down. His fingertips brush lightly across her cheekbone then move to her hair, traveling past her ear and all of the way down to the gently curled ends.

"You had a hair…thing," he explains.

"Oh," she responds in barely a whisper. "Thanks."

Then Stiles flashes a smile at her, waits for her to take her seat, and closes the door. Lydia sits quietly, dazed and unsure of his intentions. She desperately wants to believe that he could love her, that he is trying to tell her it is okay to admit her feelings, but she can't shake the notion that the universe was playing a cruel trick on her – showing her a version of her life that can never be, for no other reason than to have the pleasure of tearing it from her if she dares to reach for it. She stares out the window for a few minutes ultimately concluding that it is best not to make decisions when she is this confused.

After a few minutes, the sound of Stiles's voice breaks her from her trance.

"Lydia, you okay?"

"Yeah, I was just thinking."

"You think too much," he notes, taking possession of her left hand.

She can't refrain from smiling. "You know something, Stilinski – I think you might be right," she acknowledges, squeezing his hand.

"It's been known to happen," he quips.

As Stiles signals to turn, Lydia notices that they aren't headed for the Yukimura home. She looks at him curiously. "Stiles, where are we going?"

"You'll see…" he teases.

* * *

 **6:28 PM**

When they reach Crescent Bluff, Stiles pulls to the side of the road, removes his phone from his pocket, and sets it on the dashboard. As soon as Stiles turns on the radio and gets out of the Jeep, Lydia feels a flash of heat rising in her cheeks.

He crosses to the passenger's side and opens the door. In that moment, Lydia is sure there is no way she will get through the remainder of the evening with any semblance of control over her heart – and she is ready to relinquish it to Stiles.

"Do you want to dance?" he asks, offering his hand.

The gesture elevates another memory to the forefront of Lydia's mind - the night of winter formal, the night her life changed forever.

She looks at him, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. "Pass," she says, trying her very best to sound convincing.

Intuitively recognizing the parallel, Stiles plays along with her. "You know what? Let me try that again. Lydia, get off your cute little ass and dance with me now."

"Nice tactic…but I'm sticking with no."

"Lydia…" he groans.

"I'm kidding…I'm kidding!" she giggles, taking his hand.

It is shortly before dusk. The cloud-streaked sky is rapidly tinting from soft blue to saturated pink. As they walk to the front of the Jeep, Lydia lets her mind wander to the night of Scott's birthday.

 _Then, it was early autumn and there was a slight chill in the air. The bright lights of the vehicle cut through the wandering fog. With every step, the crunching of fallen leaves below their feet played in tune with the music. Stiles put his arms around Lydia, pulling her towards him until she was up against his chest. Impressed by the ease at which he held her, she slid her arms around his neck and their eyes locked. The sky progressively darkened as the pair swayed along with the music. A lazy, intermittent breeze swept through the bordering woods, carrying the scent of pine and dragging dry foliage in circular patterns around their ankles – a visual representation of the swirling that only he could activate in her stomach._

Lydia remembers the way her heart skipped when Stiles leaned his cheek against her temple, as well as the way his breath caught in his throat when she rested her head on his shoulder.

Presently, it is spring, and the early evening air is warmer. This time, Stiles hesitantly places his hands at her waist, his eyes searching for permission to draw her near. Lydia's mouth forms a reassuring smile. It seems to be all the encouragement he needs. She directly feels his hold strengthen, eliminating the distance between them and sending a powerful current through her body. In response, she slips her arms around his torso, gripping the back of his sweatshirt with both hands and burying her face in the crook of his neck. The contact makes her feel safe and wanted – and she falls deeper.

After a while, Lydia lifts her head to admire his face. She knows she shouldn't, that it will only make the inevitable separation she faces more difficult to bear, but her need for Stiles is undeniable. He is the Sun and she is the Earth, and gravity persistently keeps her in his orbit. Stiles looks down at her as though he is privy to her stream of consciousness. He smiles as if to say he understands – and she falls deeper still.

Just then, his eyes are attracted upward. He moves his hand to Lydia's shoulder, adeptly catching a small particle between his thumb and index finger, then holds the fluffy white entity out to her. When Lydia takes a second account of the area, she notices that she and Stiles are surrounded by a grove of cherry blossoms. The wind has suddenly picked up, blowing short gusts of air through the trees, loosening the opalescent petals from their niches, and sending flurries of them cascading to the ground like freshly fallen snow.

Ahead of them, the view overlooking their hometown is breathtaking. The gathering blue darkness is fragmented by glowing embers of light that radiate from within the homes of Beacon Hills. She can hear the distant chiming of church bells below and a nightingale's song from above. Lydia imagines capturing this moment and placing it inside a snow globe, so that she can revisit it whenever she wishes.

The approaching nightfall seeks to dredge up anxieties of what the next day might hold for them, but with Stiles's arms around her, she is able to push the intrusion of unpleasant thoughts and worries aside. Now, there is no awkwardness, no misunderstanding, no one to interrupt them, and she is going to cling to Stiles for as long as she can. She tightens her hold on him, secretly wishing the Jeep's battery would falter and grant her an extension of just a few hours more. Much to her dismay, that is not the case.

When Stiles lets go of her, Lydia can't withhold a shudder. In part, she is alarmed by the recurring response to their separation. It shines a harsh spotlight on the physical dependency she is developing. At the same time, she respects the enormity of his influence on her as evidence that she is better off with him than without.

"Aww, Lydia you're shivering," he points out with concern. "I hope you're not getting sick. It's been happening a lot lately," he continues.

"I'm sure I'm not. I feel fine otherwise," she replies, as Stiles shrugs out of his sweatshirt and drapes it around her shoulders.

"How's that? Is that better?"

"Much. Thank you," she tells him, sliding her arms into the sleeves and rolling them up to free her hands from the confines of the soft grey fabric.

"Good," he replies, taking her hand and walking her back to the Jeep.

As Lydia takes her seat, a calming sensation washes over her. The unsettling feeling that Stiles has been drifting further and further away from her is fading. With him sitting next to her and his sweatshirt wrapped around her, Stiles seems right within her reach.

In the time it takes to drive to Beacon Hills, the sky darkens to black. The moon casts pale blue light into the Jeep and Lydia watches as it keenly withdraws Stiles's profile from the shadows. For weeks, she has been forcing herself to avoid looking at him as though it would protect her. Now, she realizes how unnecessary it was – that she never needs to be protected from Stiles. So when he covers her hand with his and winds their fingers together, she lets him…without hesitation.

* * *

 **8:26 PM**

When they arrive at the Yukimura home, Stiles slowly walks Lydia to her car. It's apparent that neither want the night to end, but there are no excuses left to wield. Lydia begins to remove his sweatshirt, but Stiles places his hands on her shoulders to stop her.

"Keep it. You can give it to me when we spend another day together," he suggests, looking at her though his lashes. "Anyway, it looks better on you," he tells her as he rubs more heat into her upper arms with his palms. Then he tenderly slides his hands down to her wrists and takes her hands in his own. "Thanks for today. I'm really glad we spent it together. Kind of felt like old times."

"Yeah, it did."

"You're coming to school tomorrow, right?"

"Back to reality you mean… Yeah, I'd better."

"Good."

Lydia prepares for the dull aching chill that will inevitably resume when Stiles steps back, but instead he does something she doesn't expect – he lifts her hands to his lips and gingerly kisses them before letting go. She feels herself blush, entirely smitten, and she can't think of a single word to say, so she just beams at him.

"See you tomorrow then," he confirms, leaning over to open the door of her car.

She nods, astonished by the affectionate way he is looking at her.

"Goodnight Lydia."

"Goodnight Stiles."

Lydia gets inside, closes the door, and waits for him to start towards the Jeep. Her mind is less burdened than it has been in weeks. Last night she cried herself to sleep with heartbreak, but this day has turned out to be the best in a long while. Unless it is merely wishful thinking on her part, everything Stiles did, everything he said…even the things he did not say, indicate that he still has feeling for her. The hours they spent together have not only solidified her love, they are allowing her the luxury of hope.

It takes a staggering amount of restraint not to get out of the car and run to him. _Wait,_ she reminds herself. It is her turn to wait. Stiles needs time and she promised to put him first. He needs her patience and understanding, so she fully intends to give him both. She would give him everything she had, if he would let her.

Vivid memories of the two of them dancing – first at the formal, then on Scott's birthday last autumn, and under the cherry blossoms tonight – are fresh in her mind. Lydia has no doubt that she will love Stiles through every season, in any place, whenever he is ready, and for as long as he will have her.

On the drive home, her heart and mood lighten considerably, and when she checks the rear-view mirror she sees that the Jeep is not far behind. Stiles keeps pace with her car until she pulls into the driveway, making sure, as he has done so many times, that she arrives home safely.

"I love you," she says quietly, praying for the day she can repeat those three words so that Stiles can hear them.


	5. Cloud Cover

As Lydia fears, the estrangement between herself and Stiles is not over. While the previous day had given her hope, the next is a reminder that, in her case, hope can be a dangerous thing. In light of the prevailing circumstances, including the commitment she made to give Stiles the time he needed, hope feels more like a cruel joke. Hope distracts and torments her. For Lydia, allowing that glimmer of hope into her heart also left the door open to a process that could further taint her weakening resolve – and she needs all of the strength she can manage to hold herself together.

From the moment she wakes, thoughts of Stiles are the first to enter her mind. These thoughts continue for much of the day and she even dreams about him at night. The experience is not totally foreign to her. In truth, it's been the case ever since she kissed him. There is however, a shift in the way it makes her feel. Previously, thoughts of Stiles made her look forward to the day, made her excited to be with him, and kept her mindful of the growing love she felt – enabling her to tend to and nurture it. But presently, having Stiles on her mind 24/7 triggers a stressful loop of sadness, worry, longing, and jealousy that leaves her unsettled and anxious. The negative preoccupation that has emerged feels highly unnatural because Stiles has always been such a positive force in Lydia's life.

Yesterday, they were so in tune, but today, he has hardly said three words to her. If she is entering a room, he is leaving it; if she ventures to look in his direction, he is looking the other way. The phrase " _they were like two ships passing in the night"_ seems especially poignant. Meanwhile, she can see that Malia is comfortably settling into Stiles's orbit – a place Lydia secretly refers to as _the nook_. This is the place she has spent the last few years and would happily spend more, if that's what he wanted.

Now, the most exceptional relationship in her life is beginning to feel just like any other – a roller coaster of mixed signals – hot, cold, lukewarm, hot, colder. _So much for trying harder or for their relationship being worth it to him_ , she thinks bitterly. Immediately, she takes it back, blaming herself for the awkwardness between them.

Culpability and regret are consuming Lydia, making her want to stay in bed with the curtains drawn and the covers pulled over her head. She is chronically cold and repeatedly catches herself scrutinizing every little move she makes and every single word she says, as she tries to pinpoint what she did wrong. If the behavior continues, she is sure it will make her seriously unwell; more so than she already feels. She is certain that no matter if he were in love with her or not, Stiles would not want that. Moreover, she doesn't want it for herself. She is determined to get her life back on track and convinced that all she needs is the proper strategy to help her deal with the internal struggle that is plaguing her. She just isn't sure what that should be yet.

* * *

 **Two Weeks Later: 5:29 PM**

After a long day at school, followed by a few hours of tutoring, Lydia retires to her bedroom. She takes a long hot shower to thaw the ever-present chill and snuggles into her fluffy bathrobe. Then she expertly dries her strawberry blonde hair, taking extra care to shape the ends into soft curls. It's comforting to pamper herself a bit, and the heat provided by the hairdryer is far from unwelcome. For a few minutes, she contemplates the idea of drawing to help her relax a bit more. Normally, drawing helps ease her tension, but the last few times she picked up her sketchbook, she spent an hour just holding the pencil and stressing over what her subject should be. That more or less defeated the purpose, so she decides against it.

For two weeks, Lydia has felt as though she is fumbling around in the dark. Dealing with such a high level of uncertainty is taking a toll on her. There is relentless pressure on her shoulders and a cloud of sadness hovering over her. She has not only lost interest in things that normally make her happy, like drawing or reading, her appetite has also diminished, and her sleep patterns are completely disrupted. If she is able to fall asleep, it is a restless one at best – waking up throughout the night paired with frequent tossing and turning. By morning, she is more exhausted than when she went to bed.

Lydia doesn't need anyone to tell her what the symptoms meant. It is obvious that she is broken-hearted and depressed. The less time she spends with Stiles, the more she misses him. The more she misses him, the more hopeless she feels. She tries to take solace in the memory of the last day they spent together. Sometimes it helps, but on days such as this one, where she has run into Stiles and Malia _together_ at every turn, that beautiful memory and the feelings it evokes taunts her mercilessly. Much like the sweatshirt Stiles gave her, which is still hanging on the back of her door – a constant reminder of his absence and the gaping black hole within her chest. At the rate things are going, Lydia reckons the sweatshirt is going to become a permanent fixture. Whenever she is in her bedroom, her eyes are involuntarily drawn to it. Such a compulsion unnerves her, and she knows precisely why. That sweatshirt represents a broken promise, and up until now, Stiles has never broken a promise to her.

Sure, people make hypothetical plans all of the time and life gets in the way; no big deal. But Stiles isn't just anyone. He always follows through. In the past, if he said he would call her, he did. If either of them proposed they do something together, he saw that it happened. He would have made light of it, but there were times Lydia was sure he had rearranged his entire schedule just so they could see each other for a while.

The unrelenting sight of that simple mass of fabric and thread weighs more heavily with every second. Eventually it takes up so much space in her room, the only acceptable solution she can think of is to get rid of it. With so much hurting building inside of her, Lydia makes a rash decision – she is going to bring it back to Stiles _– right now._

* * *

 **7:20 PM**

Lydia throws on a pair of black leggings and a pale blue over-sized sweater. Then she slips on her boots, grabs her keys and the sweatshirt, and heads for her car. She takes the shortest route to his house, allowing no time to change her mind. The fire and determination coursing through her in that dark moment literally propel her from the car to the front door of the Stilinski home.

Just as she lifts her hand to knock on the door, it opens…and Sheriff Noah Stilinski is standing on the opposite side of it. She startles, sinking feeling in her stomach lurching her back a few steps.

"Lydia, hi!" Noah looks surprised to see her standing there, but he smiles and greets her with his usual warmth. "I was just on my way to the station. Sorry if I frightened you – my knucklehead of a son didn't mention you were stopping by," he jokes.

Lydia swallows with difficulty and hastily recovers her composure to reply, "It's my fault, sir. I should have called first."

"No, of course not. You're always welcome here. Come in sweetheart," he assures her, stepping aside.

The kindness he expresses fills Lydia with guilt. After all, she was moments away from ambushing his son over a piece of clothing. Her mind races as she questions her true motives.

 _Is the sweatshirt really that much of a problem? Or is this just an excuse to see Stiles? Did I come here just to pick a fight with him? If so, to what end? How is that going to repair our relationship? What is his dad going to think? Why did I assume he would be alone? What if Malia had answered the door?_

It's obvious to Lydia that her feelings are obscuring her judgement. If she had been able to sustain her normal level of control, a mistake like this would never have been made. Ashamed by her careless behavior, her lungs shudder with shallow breath as tears obnoxiously creep their way into her eyes.

"Is everything okay?" Noah asks.

"Umm…yeah. I was just returning this," she weakly explains, holding up the sweatshirt.

"Oh, okay. Stiles is in his room…you can go ahead."

"Thanks, but I can't stay."

"I'm sure he'll want to see you though… Let me call him."

"Don't!" she panics, reaching for his arm. "Sorry… I mean…it's no big deal. I have to get going anyway."

"Lydia, are you sure you're alright?" He touches her shoulder, concern radiating from his face.

She nods, quickly handing him the sweatshirt.

"Okay, I'll walk you out." He opens the door for her. "Good to see you here kiddo…even for a few minutes. It's been too long."

"You too. Thanks," she tells him, forcing a smile.

Just as her feet cross the threshold, she hears Stiles's voice from down the hallway. "Dad? I thought you left. Who are you talking to?"

"Lyd—" Noah starts to respond.

But she plunges forward with the same fire and determination that led her there in the first place. She knows there is no chance that a conversation with Stiles is going to end well when she is this overwhelmed with embarrassment and so immeasurably disappointed in herself. By the time Lydia gets to her car, Stiles is standing in the open doorway…and when she peels away from the curb he stands there, staring after her.

* * *

 **9:29 PM**

Lydia sits on her bed, in her comfy pajamas, with Prada curled up in her lap. With one hand she idly runs her fingers through the long black hair of her sleeping Papillon's ears. With the other, she flips through the pages of an enormous AP Biology book. Her attempts to concentrate on the text are futile. All she can think about is the blunder she has just made. _How am I going to face him? How can I explain this away?_ she worries.

Right on cue, her phone rings and a picture of Stiles flashes on the illuminated screen of her cell phone. For someone who, just a few hours ago, had been willing to tear into him over an innocent gesture, she now finds she has absolutely nothing to say. She ignores the call, and after Stiles rings a second time, she silences her phone for the night. The last thing she needs is to put herself through the torture of having to lie to him about the reason for her ill-advised visit.

What she does need is to regain control of herself. She knows the emotionally driven reactions she has been falling victim to, have to stop. They aren't helping anyone, especially not her. She needs to be able to get through the day without becoming a casualty of her own feelings. Devising a plan will be the easy part – luckily…or unluckily, the supernatural element in her life means having to strategize on a regular basis. On the other hand, experience has taught her that successfully executing said plan is going to be a much more difficult task. If history were any indicator, then Lydia is probably going to need a backup as well.

After much deliberation, Lydia establishes what her two best defenses should be. Avoiding Stiles and Malia would have to be the first step. Obviously, the likelihood of getting through the remainder of the school year without any interaction, is fairly low. In order to counter that, step two involves full-on denial. She will try to ride out the storm by putting a smile on her face and pretending that she isn't dying on the inside every time she sees them together. She hopes that eventually she will grow numb to their displays of affection, but truly getting to that point – that is going to be a rather daunting undertaking, and if she is honest with herself, she is not sure she is up for the challenge.

Over the next few days, Lydia upholds her strategy the best she can. Most days are tolerable; she can distract herself with her studies or by volunteering, and she makes sure not to linger before or after school to decrease the chances of running into them. Unexpectedly, Kira has providing some invaluable help. Though Lydia has not admitted the pain she is experiencing to anyone, Kira is remarkably perceptive when it comes to identifying the root of her suffering. Rather than bringing attention to it, she makes an effort to keep Lydia out of awkward situations. With Kira's help, Lydia's exchanges with Malia are held to a bare minimum, and her interactions with Stiles are limited to school assignments and working to decode the cipher key. Neither leaves much room for personal conversation, which Lydia is grateful for because, fortunately, Stiles has yet to mentioned her impromptu visit to his house. The more time that passes since that night, the more confident she is that she can put it behind her.


	6. Through the Storm

**Refers to Episodes:** Ice Pick (02x03) and Orphaned (04x06)

As time passes, the hurt is still incredibly raw. Dealing with it however, is gradually becoming second nature for Lydia. The key is to get through the school day without seeing Stiles and Malia together. On those days, she can ease her pain by counting small victories – that she has pushed through an entire day without crying, that it is one less day she has to go through without him, or when she was really feeling optimistic, that it is one day closer to finding her way back to him. Other days are much more difficult. The days when she sees Stiles hold Malia's hand…or drive her home…or hears him laugh with or make excuses for her socially unacceptable behavior – those are a different story. On those days, the aching in her chest is sharper than usual, the chill in her bones is at full strength, and she cries herself to sleep at night.

* * *

 **Three Weeks Later: 8:12 PM**

"Lydia…Meredith is gone. They found her an hour ago, in her room…she hung herself," Deputy Parrish explains from the other end of the phone. "I'm sorry."

Lydia stands frozen in the middle of Stiles's bedroom. Stiles is standing behind her and she can sense him moving in her direction. When she turns around to face him, she can see that his mouth is moving, but her ears are ringing so loud that she can't decipher the words.

"Meredith…" she breathes.

She feels Stiles pulling her into a hug, but she is so disoriented and filled with regret that it provides no relief. Her mouth goes dry and her stomach starts to twist. "I'm going to be sick," she manages to say as she quickly breaks from the embrace.

Then she covers her mouth and runs down the hallway to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Taking slow deep breaths, she tries to will the queasiness away, but it relentlessly persists until she is doubled over the sink. Tears pool in her eyes as she chokes, and heat rises through her spine, traveling around to her chest, until her skin is dampened with perspiration. When the nausea finally completes its assault on her stomach, Lydia's limbs are weak and she is overcome with chills, but she is altogether grateful that it has been hours since she last ate.

"Lydia," comes Stiles's voice from the other side of the door. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she fibs.

"Lydia, let me in, _please_."

Wiping her eyes and attempting to put on a brave face, she opens the door with her left hand while maintaining a firm grip on the sink with her right. She is afraid to let go; worried that her legs will betray her. "I've got this, Stiles. I…"

"No," he insists, squeezing between her and the doorway. "Let me help you."

Lydia feels too poorly to argue. She lets him hook an arm around her waist and guide her to the rim of the bathtub to sit down. She watches as Stiles turns on the faucet to fill the sink and submerges a washcloth in the water – only after checking the temperature three times to make sure it is right. Then he sits beside her, supporting her back with one hand, while softly wiping her forehead with the lukewarm cloth. Whether it be from the shock, the ecstasy of being held by him, or a combination of both, Lydia sways with dizziness and lets him draw her nearer until her head is resting on his shoulder.

"Stiles, I…" she whispers into his neck.

"Shh…just breathe," Stiles soothes. His hand reaches to move her hair aside as he continues to gingerly cleanse the porcelain skin behind her neck. Then he tosses the cloth into the sink, wrapping both arms around her, and begins massaging little circles on her back with his palms.

Lydia is mesmerized by his every action. No one has ever treated her the way Stiles does. He is so deliberate and gentle in the way that he touches her – the way a child holds something that is precious to them. It makes her feel cared for and significant.

"Do you think you can stand?" he asks.

She nods against his shoulder, confident that words will fail her.

Stiles keeps his arm around Lydia and together they walk to his room. As they approach the bed, he maintains his hold on her, pulling the covers aside with his free hand. "You should lie down," he says softly.

"Stiles…I shouldn't have pushed her so hard. This is my fault," her voice is raspy from the acidic burning in her throat.

"Don't say that, Lydia. It's not true."

Anger rapidly compiles in her core, giving her a small burst of adrenaline. She doesn't think she deserves for him to be so decent, so understanding, and so good to her – not after what she has done. It takes every ounce of strength, but Lydia presses her hands to his chest and shoves Stiles away from her.

"Yes, it is!" she shouts hoarsely as he stumbles and regains his balance. "She's the only one I've met who understands what it's like to be a banshee and I treated her like a _thing_ , not a person. She was fragile and broken, and all I did was press her for information. How could I do that to her? What kind of person does that? She needed my help and I made her feel worse! What have I done? It's the same as if I killed her myself."

Lydia notices Stiles doesn't interrupt her – he doesn't even try. It is unlike him and it makes her wonder what he is thinking. She wonders if maybe he agrees with her. He stands very still, which is also not like him. He doesn't move until she stops yelling, then he puts his hands on her shoulders to keep her from moving any farther from him.

She dares to look into his eyes, fully expecting to see disappointment and disgust, possibly even hate. As much as it frightens her, part of her wants it; wants him to see the worst of her and tell her he could never love her. It will hurt more than anything she can imagine, but maybe it will be a relief not to be suspended in limbo any longer.

Yet his eyes, glistening with tears, convey nothing but understanding, affection, and compassion – and the weight of it all hits her like a bullet. Her heart is pounding so loudly she can hear it, her head is spinning, and she feels her knees begin to give way. Lydia anticipates hitting the ground but instead, her feet leave the floor.

"It's alright. I've got you," she hears, and it takes a second for her to grasp that Stiles is cradling her in his arms. He carries her to his bed and carefully seats her next to his pillow. Then he kneels on the floor in front of her, holding her hands in his.

"You're freezing, Lydia," he remarks, grabbing an extra blanket from the edge of the bed and draping it around her shoulders. He shifts to sit next to her and wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his shoulder, and the room comes into focus again. "God, you scared me," he admits. "Do you feel any warmer now?"

She nods listlessly.

"Okay. It's going to be okay," he whispers.

"I'm sorry…I didn't mean to…"

"Shh...no apologies, remember? Just keep breathing for me, okay…nice and slow. That's it…you're doing great."

Stiles holds Lydia for a few minutes, reminding her to breathe every so often. After he is sure she has calmed, he cups her face in his palms. "Now listen to me, I know you feel responsible. I was with you – I feel it too – but that's the guilt talking. It's not the truth. You were trying to save your friends, not hurt Meredith."

He hunches down to meet her gaze. "I need you to understand, Meredith's breakdown was not your fault. She had an impossibly difficult life and it's awful that so many things went wrong for her…that it brought her to the point where she had no hope left. But I'm not going to let you blame yourself. I know you would never intentionally hurt anyone. I know you are a good person, with a pure heart. And I also know, that right now, all you can see is the pain she was in, but deep down, you know this was not your doing. It's just going to take time for that amazing heart of yours to accept it."

"How will I do that?" she questions, eyes wide with bewilderment.

"I am going to help you. I'll be here, reminding you…every day if I have to…until you believe it."

Her eyes close while he strokes her cheeks with his thumbs. She sits there, numb with grief convinced that he is the only one with the ability to make her feel anything good.

"Still lightheaded?"

She is, in fact, but she shakes her head in denial because now she is sure that his touch is the cause of her dizziness.

"Okay, good. Now, I know you probably don't want to, but I think you need to eat something. You haven't really had anything all day. How about if I make you some tea and toast?"

The concept of eating makes Lydia's stomach turn, but it doesn't escape her that Stiles paid attention to how little she had eaten that day. He is looking at her so intently that she feels like she can't say no. "Alright."

Stiles places a kiss on her forehead. When he pulls back, she can visualize the residual warmth that his lips leave on her skin as a permanent mark – a tattoo – and she knows it means she belongs to him.

Their bleary eyes meet, and Lydia can't resist the urge to caress his face. "Sometimes… Sometimes you don't mean to hurt someone…but you do anyway. I…I know I've hurt you."

He averts his eyes. "I think I've done my fair share, but none of that matters now. What matters is that we are going to get through this and everything else…together."

She digs her fingertips into his jaw, perhaps a bit more forcefully than intended, but he looks at her again and she relaxes. "You're so good to me."

He smiles in the same subtly awestruck way he had when she kissed him months ago, and the memory brings the same feeling she had that day to the forefront of her mind – the feeling of just waking up.

Then he slowly lets go of her and gets up from the bed, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. "I won't be long," he says with a sigh before turning and heading for the door.

"Stiles?" she calls to him before he is out of the room.

"Yeah Lydia?"

"Thank you."

He smiles humbly and continues into the hallway.

As soon as he is gone, the chill inside returns, so Lydia pulls his blanket tautly around her. Fatigue is beginning to set in, and she wants to snuggle into his bed, but when she catches sight of Malia's leather jacket hanging over the footboard, her heart sinks. Regardless of whether she has the right to be jealous, she is. So, she warily stands up, gathering the comforter from the bed. She spreads it on the floor and leans against the side of the bed, waiting for Stiles to return.

* * *

She is shivering when he comes into the room ten minutes later, carefully carrying a tray.

"Lydia, what are you doing on the floor when the bed—" Observing the jacket, his voice trails off.

She selectively articulates herself. "I figured it would be easier here."

"Oh," he says, setting the tray in front of her legs. Then he sits next to her and puts his arm around her. "Are you cold again?"

"Less so now."

The sight of the tray Stiles set up tugs at her heartstrings. He has made a genuine effort, carefully arranging the plates and silverware so that they are in the proper positions. The toast is exactly the way she likes it and he made her favorite tea. It's presented in a delicate floral cup with matching saucer. He has even placed a fresh cut lilac flower at the top left corner of the tray.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"It's perfect," she comments, taking a sip of tea. Of course, the temperature is exactly right – hot enough to soothe her irritated throat, but not so much that it could burn her tongue. "This is lovely," she adds, tapping on the cup.

"Not what you'd expect to find in a house inhabited by two…like… _super_ tough… _super_ macho, manly men, huh?" he says with a snigger.

"Not exactly," she admits, smirking as she nibbles on a piece of toast.

His face grows serious as runs his index finger along the edge of the saucer. "It was my mom's favorite."

The idea that he had chosen something of Claudia's makes her heart swell. "It's beautiful… So is the lilac," she points out, picking up the flower. Its heavenly fragrance drifts up to greet her senses as droplets of evening dew splash from dainty star-shaped blossoms, leaving her hands shimmering with moisture. "They're my favorite."

"I know."

She glances over the rim of the tea cup with her eyebrows arched in question.

"You mentioned it once."

"And you remembered." It doesn't surprise her. Stiles remembers everything she tells him.

"Yeah."

"That's…"

"Lame?"

"I was going to say incredibly sweet, and thoughtful, and I don't know… _you_."

He looks down shyly and chews on his bottom lip, as he often does when he is nervous. "Don't mention it. I mean…really…don't mention it…especially not to my neighbors," he explains with a grin. "You know…'cause I may have possibly confiscated it from their garden."

She chuckles and leans into his side. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe."

* * *

After Lydia finishes her tea and Stiles is satisfied that she has eaten enough, he rises from the floor and clears the tray. "You must be tired."

"Yeah," she agrees, rubbing her eyes. "Would you drive me home, I don't think I'm well enough to."

"Home? No way. You're not going home. You can sleep here."

"Stiles, I don't want to be in the way."

"You're not."

"But—" Stiles puts a finger to her lips to quiet her.

He traces along her bottom lip then shifts his finger under her chin to tilt her head up. "Lydia, don't fight me on this, not after… Just _please_ , stay here for the night."

She doesn't respond. Her mind is racing as she tries to think of a reason that she has to leave, something that he won't refute.

"Lydia…"

"Okay, I'll stay."

"That's better."

"I don't really want to sleep in this though," she says, referring to her jade green blouse and ivory floral skirt.

He walks over to the closet and opens the door. "Not a problem. Take your pick."

In a sea of plaid, Lydia spots a blue button-down flannel that she always liked.

"Sorry, I don't have any bottoms that are small enough for you."

"It's okay, I think the shirt will be long enough."

He looks down at her and smiles. She knows it's because of the fact that without her heels on, the top of her head barely clears his shoulder height.

"You don't happen to have any extra toothbrushes, do you?" she asks.

"Sure, in the medicine cabinet – bottom shelf on the left."

"Thanks," she says, starting for the door.

"If you need anything, let me know," he reminds her.

* * *

 **10:07 PM**

Lydia scrutinizes her reflection in the bathroom mirror, rubbing her cheeks with a sigh. Her face is pale and drawn, eyes and nose red from crying, mascara and liner smudged, and her hair unkempt and full of flyaway strands. Typically, she would be horrified for anyone to see her in such a state, but she is with Stiles – he has seen her in worse condition and still told her she is beautiful.

She removes her skirt and blouse and slips into his shirt. As soon as the flannel touches her skin, she feels better. It its soft and warm, but best of all, it smells like Stiles. She rolls up the sleeves, which extend far past her fingertips, then washes every last trace of makeup from her face and thoroughly scrubs her teeth to lessen the awful taste in her mouth. She unclasps the bobby pins from her crown with the intention of untangling her hair, but she can't find a comb or a brush, so she gathers her clothes and heads down the hallway.

When Lydia opens the bedroom door, Stiles had already changed into a navy tee shirt and grey sweat pants as well as tidied up the room. The comforter is back on the bed, sheets straightened, pillows fluffed, and the leather jacket was nowhere to be seen. He is standing in front of his crime board but turns when he hears her enter. As his eyes refocus on her, his expression changes. It is a familiar one – exactly the same as when he watched her ice skating for the first time. His mouth slightly ajar and eyes examining her, not in an intrusive or ogling way, but rather, an astonished and admiring way. She recognizes it by the way it makes her feel – nervous and a little bit scared, but mostly beautiful, valued, and loved.

"Stiles…" she starts.

"Hmm…sorry. It's not every day I see a pretty girl walking around my bedroom in nothing but my shirt." His eyes widen dramatically, the way they do sometimes. "Did I just say that?" he remarks in disbelief, narrowing his eyes and putting a closed fist to his lips.

"It's okay. I think I know what you meant." She pauses for a moment, jealous streak silently, yet unapologetically, processing the comment as a victory. If it is wrong to be glad that this was an unusual occurrence for him, she doesn't care one bit.

The room is silent for a minute as the two awkwardly stare at each other. When Stiles anxiously runs a hand through his hair, Lydia is reminded of what she wanted to ask him. "Do you have a brush I can borrow? I didn't find one in the bathroom."

"Yeah, sure. I think I left it on the nightstand," he answers, crossing the room to retrieve it. Lydia moves to the mirror near his closet door waiting for him to hand her the brush, but instead Stiles steps behind her. "Is it alright if I…?" he requests.

Lydia observes his reflection in the glass – curious and innocent, but there is a layer of desire as well. She thinks if she were fortunate enough to spend one hundred years with him, she will still never behold every expression he is capable of conveying. Even so, she would love the opportunity. Her heart beats rapidly, and she doesn't quite trust the strength of her voice, so she only nods. Then she stands quietly, unable to breathe, as he gently and rather expertly smooths her messy locks back to their original glory.

He starts from the ends, so as not to catch any knots, and works his way up to the crown of her head. She can feel intoxicatingly pleasant heat emanating from his body and electricity raging throughout hers each time his fingertips connect with the skin along her neck and shoulders.

After a few minutes, Stiles encourages her to face him. He sweeps her newly polished mane from her face by running his right hand down the full length of her hair. It is then that Lydia notices his eyes are tearing, and in that moment, she would give anything to know what he is thinking about.

Swallowing her nerves, and trying to resume stable breaths, she speaks up. "Stiles, what is it?"

He quickly wipes his eyes. "I was just thinking…about how much we've been through. It seems like no matter how bad things get…we never reach the bottom. You know? I…I always thought that's just how life works – one bad thing after another and the worst one is always the one that your faced with at the time. But standing here with you, I think…maybe we just didn't feel it when it happened…because we were there to break each other's fall." His voice is tattered with emotion, but he clears his throat, trying to cover it. "Does that make any sense?"

"Yeah, it does. It makes a lot of sense," she says quietly. His words reassure her and give her enough courage to inch closer and bring him into a hug.

Without a flicker of hesitation, Stiles returns the contact, leaning into her with a sigh. He holds her close to his chest, then gives her a squeeze. "It's late. Why don't you lie down and see if you can sleep?" he suggests.

When he releases her and motions towards the bed, a fleeting image of the leather jacket flashes through her mind. Irrational or not, Lydia does not want to climb into a bed that he has probably been sharing with Malia. She doesn't move. "I'm not sure that's wise."

He encircles her wrist with his fingers. "It's alright. Today is laundry day, so everything's…new," he assures her – as if he understands what her reservations are.

 _Perhaps he knows from experience_ , she considers. The notion gives her a deeper appreciation for what it must have been like for him over the last few years, and it makes her grimace. If it felt even a fraction as painful for him as it does for her, that is far more pain than he should ever have to go through.

"But, won't anyone mind me staying here?"

"It's not up to anyone else. It's up to me", he tells her, towing her to the side of the bed. "Come on, you need to rest."

She reluctantly crawls in, positioning herself nearest to the wall.

Stiles kneels next to the bed and pulls the covers around her. "Need anything?"

What she needs is someone – she needs him.

A few hours ago, she was consumed with frustration as they restlessly worked on the cipher key together. A few hours ago, it was impossible to think with Stiles leaning over her shoulder; heat radiating from him as if he were a furnace. His characteristically restless movements – pacing the room, tapping his fingers, nibbling on his nails – they all seemed to send vibrations into the atmosphere that were directing her attention to him without mercy. A few hours ago, his nearness was making her feel things she didn't want to feel; it sent shivers down her spine, made her hands shake, and her stomach somersault. A few hours ago, she wished he would just move away from her. But now, he is all she wants in the world and even though she knows it is wrong to ask, she does, because Stiles is her safe place.

"Yeah, I do."

He takes her hand, waiting for her to tell him what she needs.

"I…I know I shouldn't ask you this, but…could you hold me?" she whispers. Then, she holds her breath waiting for his reply.

Stiles appears taken aback by the request, as though he is working through the underlying meaning of such a rare display of vulnerability from her. Then he smiles knowingly and answers, "Yeah, I could do that."

Lydia lifts the covers aside and Stiles climbs in next to her. He opens his arms and she melts into him, absorbing his warmth and breathing in his uniquely comforting scent. It is such a relief to be held by him that when she exhales, her whole body shakes with the release of all the pent up and heightened emotion of the last few weeks.

"Okay, Lydia. It's okay. Cry all you want…I've got you," he consoles, holding her firmly and resting his head on hers.

She leans against his chest, clutching at the front of his shirt with her fists. "Don't let go," she pleads.

"Shh…I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

So, Lydia cries. She cries over the loss of Meredith, of Allison, and with the guilt of not being able to save either of them. She cries for all that she and Stiles could be if she had only spoken sooner. She cries until she is rosy cheeked, puffy eyed, and totally spent, and Stiles never loosens his grip on her.

Eventually exhaustion takes over and she is able to relax with his strong hands supporting her back, his soft lips pressed to her forehead, and the steady drumming of his heartbeat against her palms.

* * *

 **3:08 AM**

When Lydia wakes, the room is almost completely shrouded in darkness. She lifts her head to find that Stiles is sleeping peacefully – lips parted, left arm draped over her, chest rising and falling beneath her hands. Indirect light from a street lamp filters through the blinds, highlighting the chiseled angles of his face and painting vibrant orange stripes on the shaded blue wall across from them. The unexpected merge of color reminds Lydia of a conversation they once had.

 _"Okay, um, maybe orange and blue is not the best. But, you know, um…sometimes there's other things you wouldn't think would be a good combination…end up turning out to be, like, a perfect combination, you know…like two people…together – who…nobody ever thought would be together…ever," Stiles had nervously rambled._

 _"No, I can see that," she responded._

 _"You can?"_

 _"Yeah, they're cute together."_

She silently scolds herself for pretending to misunderstand him, especially when she was already beginning to see how correct he was. She remembers gorgeous brown eyes entrancing her with their hopeful gleam, but she also remembers not allowing herself to accept the possibility they offered. He was too kind, too sweet, too honest, too smart, too perceptive – nothing like what she was used to. And though she longed to be worthy of someone so downright good, she didn't think she deserved him. At the same time, the idea was so intriguing that she couldn't completely resist him. She remembers taking his hand while they skated, she remembers how protectively he held her that night, and she remembers that even though it scared her, she let him, because it felt so right.

The memory of that boy, still mostly untouched by the unimaginable horrors that now plagued him, awakens something inside her. As Lydia lovingly studies his features in the quiet of the early morning hours, she feels foolish for ever thinking Stiles had changed. Everything he had done for her that night was proof that he has always been and would always be _her Stiles_ – the same boy that patiently captured her heart by showing her what true love was supposed to be like, simply by being himself.

Deep in her heart, she knows that the one person with the power to hurt her, in every sense of the word, would never choose to do so. She need not worry that he will be careless with her heart because it isn't in him to be anything less than exceptional to her. She has never felt so close to anyone in her life.

"Stiles," she whispers, almost inaudibly. He doesn't respond, so she softly speaks his name a few more times. When she is certain that he is sound asleep, she grazes her lips against his cheek. "I know I don't deserve you, but I love you." Then she settles back into his embrace and drifts to sleep.


	7. Between the Raindrops

**Refers to Episodes:** Master Plan (02x12) and Weaponized (04x07)

 **One Week Later: 10:10 AM**

Lydia is riddled with nerves as she steps up to the front door of 129 Woodbine Lane, the Stilinski home. It appears that the day's weather is more than eager to imitate her inner turmoil with a rather impressive show of force. She takes refuge under the shelter of her umbrella as heavy droplets of rain pelt down around her and brusque howling winds send bands of precipitation scuttering across the landscape.

It had been hours since she was alerted to the fact that someone was going to die; hours since she dreadfully rushed to the high school, fearing for the lives of her friends.

It had been hours since she saw Stiles from across the hallway. The sight of him stopped her heart; she was sure of it. His face was imprinted with shock and splattered with blood, and the concrete evidence that she had once again come within seconds of losing him was unbearable. His absence would have created a void so expansive nothing would ever be able to fill it. She had wanted to run to him, but he was with his dad and Scott, so she remained suspended in longing; the thirty-foot chasm between them feeling like miles.

It had been hours since she could breathe properly. Hours since she had been captively locked in an emotional tug of war with fear. Fear that had been both holding her back and propelling her forward. But no amount of denial or avoidance could help her now. The only way to liberate her from fear would be to see Stiles, to touch him, to make sure he was real, and alive, and safe, and still the purest part of her existence, so she determinedly lifts her hand and knocks.

Moments later, the door opens.

"Lydia, come in," Noah Stilinski greets her as she set her umbrella down on the porch. He holds the door for her. "Let me take your coat."

"Thanks."

"How are you holding up?" he asks, hanging her pale pink raincoat in the hallway and walking her into the living room.

"Okay, I guess. You?"

"Uh…trying to focus on what did happen, instead of what might have. You know?"

"Yeah, I do." A stinging pressure is building behind her eyes as she fights back tears.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks.

"No, thank you. I just wanted to…I mean… How is he?"

Noah sighs heavily and massages his temples. "Honestly, he's struggling…nightmares like before. Now he can't go back to sleep." He remains quiet for a few seconds, scratching at his jaw with his right hand.

 _Just like Stiles,_ Lydia thinks, noting the similarity between father and son.

"I'm glad you're here though. I was going to call you…because he needs to see you. I know it will make a difference." He shifts his feet and leans closer. "Listen, I probably shouldn't say anything, and I doubt he remembers…but in the midst of it all, he kept calling out for you."

At first, her mind selfishly processes the information as a victory. She can't help but be flattered that Stiles had called for her, that he wanted her with him. It is a short-lived triumph. The momentary elation is quickly replaced with devastating guilt.

Lydia can feel her bottom lip trembling. "He did?"

"Yeah, he did."

Lydia is sick with the knowledge that if she had done what her heart had been begging her to do, what she had promised Allison she would do months ago, she could have been there for Stiles when he needed her. Her silence has not only caused immeasurable pain for herself and let Allison down, it is also letting Stiles down. Tears start to flow from her eyes with uncontrolled fervor.

"I'm so sorry," she confesses, throat tightening over the words.

"What for?"

"It took me so long…to let myself...and now…"

"Hey, it's alright… I know, kid," he clarifies, cool blue eyes full of compassion as he nudges her chin upwards.

At first, Lydia blinks with surprise, but it quickly fades. "How long have you known?"

"Oh, quite some time…but it's usually easier for someone on the outside to spot… Plus, I _am_ the Sheriff," he winks, trying to help ease her tension.

"I've made a mess of everything," she says wistfully.

"Don't worry. These things have a way of working themselves out. You'll see." He ticks his head in the direction of Stiles's room, letting her know it was okay for her to go ahead.

* * *

Lydia walks down the hallway, slightly stunned but mostly relieved. Being able to admit her feelings to someone for the first time since she told Allison, lifts some of the heaviness from her shoulders. That Noah Stilinski had made it so easy for her…well, that was less shocking. He has always treated her like part of the family, and over the years, he has been more like a father to her than her own.

As she reaches the bedroom, she instinctively wraps her arms around herself, taking hold of the sides of her olive-green cardigan in tightly clenched fists. Further relief washes over her when she realizes that she isn't actually cold. The action has become a habit, but ever since the night she spent in Stiles's arms, she can't remember feeling cold at all. It makes her chest tense to think of the impact he has on her. She blots her eyes and lightly taps on the grain.

Stiles opens the door, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "Dad, I —" he stops mid-sentence, visibly surprised to see her.

Lydia's jaw slackens at the sight of him. She can see how weary he is, but she still thinks he looks beautiful standing in front of her – hair tousled, faint shadow of stubble across his jaw, wearing nothing but his red plaid pajama pants.

"Hi," he breathes, and so does she – finally.

"Hi," she replies, pursing her lips. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, of course." He steps back, waiting for her to enter, then closes the door.

Between the gratitude she has for seeing him alive and safe, and the piercing physical attraction that strikes her, it is an effort to maintain control of her voice. Keeping her back to him, she begins to ramble, "Sorry for just showing up like this. I…uh…wanted to make sure…to see…I mean… Are you okay?"

He makes not a sound, but Lydia knows Stiles has stepped closer because the heat from behind her is powerfully rising. It seeps from his chest – perfection no longer hidden by layers of cotton – permeating her spine with heady warmth and causing her initial shyness at witnessing this shirtless version of him to morph into curiosity. Supremely conscious of the comforting familiar scent of him, she aches to touch him – and the tether tightens around her heart; the sheer energy of it rotating her petite figure until they are facing each other.

"Not really," he admits, anxiously wetting his lips. "But I'm better than I was a few minutes ago."

In one swift movement, Lydia crashes into him with every bit of love she possesses. Arms sliding around his lean torso, hands hastily gripping at his back and shoulders, and her cheek smashed against the bare skin of his shoulder, she stretches to mold herself around him and breathe him in. Hearing his heartbeat surge, she suddenly feels the need to seek permission for the contact. "Is this okay?"

He willingly gives his answer, arms drawing up to meet her as he presses his face into the side of her neck. His muscles flex and respond to every centimeter of her body, gripping her just as forcefully and with just as much need.

Rain mercilessly drenches the outdoors while the sky claps and lightning flashes – yet there they stand, in the safety of his room, hearts thundering against each other, electricity flowing between, and nothing to cling to but each other.

Stiles is real, he is alive, and just for now, he is _hers_. Lydia has never been more grateful.

As the pressure inside her subsides and the storm gradually calms, she discovers her voice. "Is there anything I can do?" she asks, tracing the curve of his spine with her fingertips.

"You're here, that's enough," he replies with a subtle quiver.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He nods into her shoulder, eyelashes tapping against the sensitive skin of her neck, then he lets go of her waist, raising his palms to wipe the corners of his eyes.

She takes his hand and leads him to the bed. "Sit here for a minute, I'll be right back."

Lydia reenters the room with the trace of a smile shaping her lips. "Looks like you're out of tissues…again," she remarks, handing him a roll of toilet paper.

They both smile at the marked symmetry with one particular night, less than twelve months ago. Then Lydia sits next to Stiles, grips his hand, and waits for him to speak.

"I don't know where to start… I don't think I've been that scared since my dad was missing. When the gun was pointed at me, all I could think was: _This is it, I'm going to die. What if I had just done things differently?_ He adjusts his position until he is facing her. With his free hand settling at the small of her back, he catches a loose curl of her hair in his fingertips while his knee connects with her thigh. The contact seems to put him slightly more at ease. "I thought about you…saw your face so clearly… Lydia, it was like you were with me. I remember being worried that things aren't the way they should be between us, and I thought I was never going to have the chance to make you understand…"

The fears he utters ring through to her aching chest, echoing in the hollow space she reserves for him to make his home someday. It would be so easy for Lydia to reverberate those same fears back to him – they already haunt her like ghosts. It would be so easy to allow herself to cave to the fright and seek the comfort that only he can provide – comfort that he has willingly and selflessly offered at the slightest indication of her suffering. But easy is not the answer right now. It is her turn to take the perilous reigns, as Stiles has always done for her.

There is no running from it – his pain is her pain, intensified. She learned long ago that seeing Stiles hurting is far worse than any awareness of her own anguish. It taps into her overwhelming desire to protect and console him, giving her strength and limitless confidence in their bond. Mentally, she flicks each of those fears away, ignoring the sting from the cuts they leave behind, and binding her wounds with the indestructible tether that anchors her to Stiles.

She pulls their joined hands into her lap and massages the inside of his forearm with her other hand. "I'm so sorry it happened. I don't want you to worry about us though."

"But Lydia, I do."

"You shouldn't. Listen to me. Things have been…I don't know…confusing at best lately, but there's one thing I'm not confused about anymore – no matter what, there isn't anything that could ruin this… _ruin us._ You're such a big part of my life, and we've been through so much already."

"Do you promise?… Because Lydia, nothing in my life makes sense…not without you."

She moves her hand to the nape of his neck and stretches up to kiss his forehead. Then she leans her head against his and breathes, "I promise."

Tears freely spill over their eyelashes – running across their cheeks and mingling as they scatter into the shallow space between them. Lydia feels his arms latch around her waist, taking her nearer to where she so desperately wants to be. She risks a look at Stiles, fighting the urge to tilt her head until their lips met. There is so much yet to resolve, and his eyes are painted with such vulnerability, it would be a mistake to give in just then. She would have been ashamed to take advantage of him in such a state, so she reminds herself to wait.

"Your dad mentioned you didn't sleep much. Are you tired?"

"A little, but I don't want to sleep. Lydia…it's worse when I close my eyes."

"What if I stay with you?" She nods her head toward his pillow. "Come on, it will be okay."

Stiles lies down and sets his head on the pillow as Lydia stands so she can arrange the sheets and blankets around him. He restlessly fidgets under the covers until she sits next to him and laces her hand with his.

"It's okay. Close your eyes," she directs.

He complies for a fraction of a second before his eyes whip open again; brilliant brown orbs studded with pain. "You'll stay…until I fall asleep?"

He is so sweet, she can't withhold more tears. "I will."

"What if… What if you're gone when I wake up?"

Lydia smiles thoughtfully at Stiles, smoothing his hair where it has gone out of place. "No, I'll be here."

"Okay. Good," he says, deliberately shutting his eyes once more. "Lydia…I…"

"Yeah?"

He pulls their joined hands over his heart. "This means so much."

No words seem suitable, so she bends down to kiss his knuckles. She hopes the gesture means as much to Stiles as it does to her. Then she waits, grazing her thumb along the arch of his right eyebrow, watching him slowly relax into her touch.

Several minutes later, once Lydia is sure he is asleep, she leans closer. "I love you, and I always will," she whispers, in a tone so low that it is barely perceptible. When his grip on her hand increases, she flinches, trying to discern if he heard her, but the light sound of a snore implies he has not. She waits a while longer, making sure he is at peace, then quietly leaves the room.

* * *

In the living room, Sheriff Stilinski is sitting on the couch. Upon hearing Lydia enter, he shifts his focus from the pile of police reports that are spread over the coffee table, to her. "How did it go?" he asks.

"He's been sound asleep for about an hour," she informs him.

"You're a miracle worker," he replies in awe.

Lydia blushes and humbly shakes her head. "He's stronger than he gives himself credit for. He'll get through this. I know it."

"I don't doubt it," Noah nods in agreement.

"I should get back…in case he wakes up," she tells him, walking towards the couch to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Thanks for everything, Lydia. We're both lucky to have you," he says, patting her hand.

"I'm the one who's lucky," she corrects. Then she timidly drops a peck on his cheek and heads for the hallway.

She walks back to the bedroom feeling clearer than she has in months. Stiles had been right, of course. The two of them had already hit the bottom – probably months ago – and didn't even realize it because they had cushioned each other from the brunt of the impact. Now, with every word, every touch, every smile, every second of comfortable silence, a new building block was being set.

Lydia takes her place at his side, certain that she could never tire of admiring him. She watches over him as he sleeps, and when he reaches for her, she is there for him. For the first time, she had real confidence that things will work out. Even through separation, they have held onto the deepest corners of each other's hearts, and their bond is stronger for it. She believes they are linked. Whatever happens, they will always find their way back to each other. All she needs is for Stiles to be alive, safe, and in her life in any way possible. Waiting will be difficult, but he is worth it, and when he is ready, she will be there.


	8. Balance

**Refers to Episode:** Perishable (04x09)

 **Two Weeks Later: 9:22 PM**

Lydia blankly stares down at Brunski. He can't hurt Stiles, or her, or anyone else again, but there is no sense of justice or restoration of balance, only emptiness and loss.

She feels Stiles approaching from her left side before she hears him say, "Come on. I'll take you home."

The minute he puts his arm around her, the ringing in her ears and the numbness that threatened to keep her frozen in place subside, and the pair make the long journey out from the sub-basement of Eichen House.

Lydia sit as motionless as a statue in the front seat of the Jeep. Her mind is vividly replaying the trauma they have just been through – over and over until she can see and hear nothing else. The feeling of warm hands covering hers breaks the toxic cycle of thought, bringing her back to the present.

"Lydia, can you hear me?"

Stiles has already walked around to the passenger's side, opened the door, and unbuckled her seat belt. Lydia's mind is so preoccupied that it holds no recollection of him doing any of those things or of the drive home.

"Yeah, sorry. I…"

"It's okay," he replies softly, taking the key ring from her hand and waiting for her to step onto the curb. Then he puts his arm around her and leads her to the front door.

When they enter the empty house, Stiles flips on a few switches to alleviate the pitch blackness. In the light, Lydia can see an angry red mark forming across his cheekbone, where Brunski had punched him, and it activates a sharp pain in her chest.

"Does it hurt?" she asks, hand outstretched to touch him.

"No, it's –" he denies, but as soon as her fingertips make the slightest contact, he winces. "Ahh…okay, maybe it hurts a little."

"We should get some ice on that," she says, leading Stiles into the kitchen.

She heads for the freezer, trying to locate an ice pack. _Of course, it would be buried in the back,_ she thinks with a huff _._ Rising to the tip of her toes, she is able to reach it, ignorant to the fact that Stiles is standing directly behind her until she moves to face him. He has left just enough space between himself and the marble countertop for her to turn around.

While she supposes his proximity should make her nervous, it has the opposite effect, making her feel safe and protected. She gently holds the pack to his cheek watching as Stiles eyes flutter shut. He gradually lets out a breath and as his warmth crosses her face, it sends fly-away strands of her hair tickling her skin and a wandering tingle down her spine.

She waits a minute or two then removes the pack. "How's that?" Lydia inquires.

"Better."

"Good."

Avoiding the bruise, she glides her hand down the side of his face, passing his shoulder, and roaming the length of his arm to his wrist.

Stiles slowly opens his eyes when she takes his hand. Together they walk to her room, up the long stairs and down the hallway; memories springing from the ground like wildflowers once again, but this time, instead of withering – they flourish.

Lydia enters the room and Stiles lingers in the doorway.

He scratches the back of his neck, head tilted downwards, looking shyly at her through is dark lashes. "Do you uh….want me to stay?"

"Yeah, so you should probably go," she says, stepping aside to clear a path for him to enter.

"You're probably right," he responds, quietly following her into the room, shutting the door behind him, and closing the distance between them in two strides.

He pauses for a moment, then lifts her hair aside to examine her neck, tenderly using his hands to cover the vicious marks that are forming. "Lydia…" he whispers.

Scarcely an hour ago, Brunski's rough hands had been there, hurting her. Now Stiles's warm touch is erasing the pain and sending a kaleidoscope of butterflies trembling through her stomach.

He slides his hands down to her forearms. Then one at a time, he pushes the sleeves of her floral top up to her elbows, revealing raw bruises from the restraints that had confined her. "Look what he did to you," words angrily forcing their way through his clenched jaw. He focuses on her left wrist which suffered the most damage when Lydia had been fiercely trying to yank her dominant hand free. Stiles studies the crimson blotches; a sharp contrast against her ivory skin. Then, he lifts her arm to his lips and gingerly kisses the inside of her wrist. "I thought…," he continues, face stricken and voice wrought with emotion.

"Me too," she breathes.

With her hand so near his face, she extends her fingers outwards to trace the line of his jaw from his earlobe to his chin, delicately skimming the beautiful constellation of moles that adorns it. Watching as he relaxes into her, Lydia comes to the realization that their connection is most powerfully represented in the lightest of touches, simplest of exchanges, heaviest of silences; fingertips against skin, a soft word or two, the soundless hours in the middle of the night with nothing between them but an invisible tether. Stiles has never been more precious to her than he is in this moment – and all things considered, that is saying a great deal.

An uncontrollable sob escapes from her throat as she drops her head to his shoulder. His arms encircle her, steadying her quivering form with the grip of a vice. His hold is too tight on her sore frame, yet not tight enough. She feels his lips brush along the pulse point at her throat. Had he kissed her? She isn't sure, but frankly it doesn't matter – the sentiment is unmistakable. She is with _her Stiles,_ in _his arms,_ and there is nowhere else she would rather be. Bodies quaking with a mixture of shock and relief, they crash to their knees; a pile of intertwined limbs, draped in a cape of cotton plaid, tinted in shades of red…from strawberry blonde, to blush, to burgundy, all tied up in emotion and trust.

"It's gonna be alright. I've got you," he promises, and she knows it is the truth.

* * *

 **1:08 AM**

Lydia and Stiles remain on the floor of her room with only the dim light of her crystal lamp to cut the darkness. He sits, leaning against her bed, legs outstretched in front of him. She is lying on her side with her knees curled up to her chest. Her head is resting comfortably on his leg as he coils long reddish strands of her hair around his fingers.

They have talked for hours. Stiles let Lydia be as angry as she needed to be. Angry at Brunski for what he had done to her grandmother, for how he had treated Stiles when he was a patient at Eichen House, and for how he had hurt him tonight. Angry for how much he had scared her when he was merely seconds away from taking Stiles from her forever.

Stiles let her cry as much as she needed to. Cry with relief that they both made it, and that Meredith, no matter what she had done, was alive. Cry with grief for her grandmother, for Allison, for everyone she had lost. Cry with the ache of longing she has for him even when they are so close.

Now the room is noiseless. The pair have settled into comfortable silence; the familiar rhythm of breaths and touches that is uniquely theirs, and which in Lydia's opinion, cannot not be matched. But as much as she enjoyed the peacefulness, she wants to hear his voice. The same voice that grounded and focused her when she was forced to hear her grandmother's dying pleas. The same voice that lifted her out of the depths when her mind sought to submit her to a loop of agony as it replayed the trauma. The same voice that emboldens her to open her heart, even when she fears the consequences. She realizes that she has not heard that voice enough, especially recently.

Much like he has been for the last two weeks, Stiles is atypically quiet. A subtle change really, but just enough to make her aware. Lydia doubts that anyone would have picked up on it except for his dad, Scott, or herself. Though it was not the first time Stiles had stared death in the face, those harrowing moments at the school left a mark on him that cuts deep below the surface.

That profound impression appears to be the catalyst for two other changes as well. The first being a shift in his relationship with Malia. Lydia has hardly seen them together in the time since, and now _he_ is the one who tenses at the sound of her name. She thought about asking what was going on between them, but she can't bear the thought of allowing Malia into the space they share. The second change is the difference in his comportment towards Lydia. Slowly but surely, Stiles has been moving close to her again. She sees how his body stills and steadies when they are near. She feels him reach to hold her hand. She hears the way he exhales when she squeezes his hand in return. He looks her in the eyes more frequently and holds her gaze longer. He meets her by her locker before and after school again, and when they work together, there is a renewed ease between them. It's not the same as before, but equally pleasant. It is softer, sweeter, more intimate than it had been. A little less banter and sarcasm. A little more unpolished and open.

The current ease between them somehow seems more significant to Lydia because now she knows that it could be lost, and she knows what it felt like when it was missing. She revels in it nonetheless. Tonight, it makes the moon glow brighter and connects her to the stars. It allows full breaths, a clearer mind, and lightens the burden on her shoulders. It makes her heart open wider for him and her fingers close tighter around his. Stiles is guiding her back to the nook, and every step they take together is one more headed in the right direction.

Eventually, the silence extends longer than Lydia is comfortable with, making Stiles seem far away even though he is right next to her. So many questions come to mind that she doesn't know where to start. Lydia is almost positive that they wouldn't have progressed this far had she not given Stiles the space to decide what felt right. She certainly doesn't want to pressure him if he isn't in ready to talk, and she worries that tossing a bombardment of questions at him might cause a setback.

She picks at her chipped nail polish and fiddles with the hem of her skirt, all the while brimming with curiosity about what he might be thinking. By the time her need to hear his voice overshadows her fear, she decides that a broad, open-ended question would be best. That way, Stiles can steer the conversation.

"Stiles, what are you thinking about?"

He exhales. "Uh…honestly, a lot of things…mostly you."

"What about me?"

"I'm…just so unbelievably grateful to be with you right now…I can't even put it into words. But…" He stops twirling her hair at the same time he stops speaking.

Lydia puts her hand on his knee, aiming to bring him back to her. "Stiles?"

"Well…there's also something…I've been wanting to ask. It's been gnawing at me, but it never seems like the right time to bring it up."

"Oh. What's that?"

"It's about that night you dropped off my sweatshirt."

A few weeks without any mention of the incident had lulled Lydia into a false sense of security. She almost forgot about her indiscretion. "What about it?" she asks cautiously.

"Never mind, it seems trivial now…after what we just went through."

"No, go ahead. If it's bothering you, then it's important to me."

"Why didn't you keep it? I thought we agreed you were supposed to hang on to it."

"Oh…that…well, I thought it had been a while since you let me borrow it…and maybe you were missing it," she lies. She meant to answer honestly, but as soon as she is reminded of her overreaction, the compulsion to hide a less than flattering side of herself takes hold.

"Can I ask something else then?"

She can tell by his tone that Stiles isn't convinced by her weak response, but hopes he wouldn't pursue the subject much more, so she nods against his leg.

"If that's all it was, then why didn't you want to see or talk to me that night? And please, don't tell me you didn't have time…because it would have only taken a minute…and I know you went straight home."

Lydia cocks her head to one side. "Did you follow me?"

Apparently, Stiles hadn't meant to disclose that last bit of information because he has trouble finding his next words. "Okay…I know how that sounds…but you took off so quickly…and…and…I…"

"You were worried about me," she finishes. Then she rolls onto her back to look up at him.

"Yeah, I was." His voice is barely a whisper, his face like that of a little boy who thinks he is about to be reprimanded.

Lydia finds it to be adorable and she can't hide the grin that immediately touches her lips. Taking his hand and locking their fingers together, she tries to reassure Stiles that she isn't angry. "And you wanted to make sure I got home safely," she elaborates.

"That too," he confesses.

The meaning behind his admission reaches through to her heart and fades her smile. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I had a tough day, and I saw the sweatshirt. It was just hanging there…and it reminded me. Bringing it back…was kind of a reaction more than anything else. Then when your dad answered the door, I felt pretty foolish for coming over and I didn't want to stay."

"How come you didn't return my calls that night?"

"Mostly because I was embarrassed."

"But also…" he leads, pressing his thumb and index fingers to her chin.

"Because I was afraid of what I would say."

"Were you angry at me?"

She averts her eyes.

"Lydia, were you? We had hardly spent more than a few minutes together in weeks. What could I have…"

When Stiles pauses in the middle of his thought, she looks up at his face – just in time to see his expression change from confusion to clarity as he makes the connection.

"Oh. Did you want to see me?" His right eyebrow forms a perfect arch.

"Stiles…"

"Did you?"

If she didn't think he deserved to hear it, she might resent the fact that he is trying to get her to admit she missed him. "Of course I did. I always want to see you. We're… _friends_ , aren't we?" She almost chokes over the word, but seeing a smile spread across his face causes her to stop. "What's so funny?"

"It's just… _that word_ … _friends_ …we use it, but it doesn't really do us justice. I don't think a word for what we are has been invented yet."

"I know what you mean." She smiles a genuine smile, and he traces one of her dimples, which makes Lydia blush but also prompts her to reveal a small piece of the puzzle to him. "Can I let you in on a little secret?"

"Yeah, please do," spark igniting in his beautiful eyes.

"Promise you won't let it go to your head…"

"Okay…"

"I find it incredibly difficult to be angry with you. Even when I think I am, the person I'm really angry with is myself."

"Why?"

"For not being clearer."

"Things seem pretty clear right now."

"Do they?" she questions sitting up, but not letting go of his hand.

"Yeah. We're better when we're together. When we're not, stuff goes wrong, things go unsaid, we get our signals crossed. I don't want that. I hate it when we're not… _us_."

"So do I. Otherwise it's like I'm…."

"Off balance?…Missing something?…Lost?"

"Yes, all of those things."

Stiles sits quietly for a few minutes, drawing infinity signs inside Lydia's palm. "How about…we make a few promises to each other? This way, it won't happen again."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Um…how about…I promise to make sure we find ways to spend more time together – just the two of us. Your turn."

"Okay…I promise to remind you if it's been too long since we have."

"I'll be here for you, Lydia – no matter what," he says, reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

"I'll do the same and…" she tilts her head down, "…and I will try to stop pushing you away…like I tend to do."

He lifts her chin upwards, waiting for her to make eye contact. "Even if you do, I will never let it work."

"I promise to always wait for you," she swears.

"I promise that too," he assures her with his lovely crooked grin before leaning against her and pressing his lips to the tattoo he had emblazoned upon her forehead weeks before.

As vital as the sun to her, Stiles lights her atmosphere with his smile, warms her soul with his touch, and melts away all of her insecurities with his words. That simple exchange, quiets each of the new questions swirling in Lydia's head and douses all of the doubt, fear, and worry in an overflow of love and understanding.

"Did we leave anything out?" Stiles asks smiling into her forehead, his breath leaving a trail of warmth as it travels across her skin.

"I don't think so, but we can always add to the list…right?"

"Yeah, definitely." He looks at her through eyes shaded with lashes. "Do we shake hands or hug now? Or are we married?" he teases, either absentmindedly or deliberately tracing the base of her ring finger with his thumb – Lydia can't tell which.

There is something truly innocent but also very suggestive about the pairing of words and touch. She can't deny that she loves how unexpectedly romantic Stiles can be. "I think a hug makes it official," she decides, narrowly managing to keep her composure. The thought of them being married makes her suddenly giddy, and she has to bury her face in her hands to contain the emotion.

"Okay, but first we need to amend the list."

She peers at him from behind her parted fingers. "So soon?"

"For the love of god! Lydia you have to promise never to cover your dimples!" he implores her, prying her hands away from her face and moving closer.

It makes her glad to be sitting because she feels lightheaded. "Stiles…"

"Say it or the whole agreement is invalid."

"Alright! I promise," she concedes, letting him help her to her feet and naturally surround her figure with his own.

Just as they begin to separate, the sound of Stiles's phone buzzing in his pocket makes Lydia's heart sink. The assumption that Malia might be calling is disheartening, but her spirits lift when he keeps his left arm around her, holding her close and rubbing her back as he speaks.

"Hey, Dad…yeah…at Lydia's…you know…it's been a rough few hours, but she's amazing and strong so…"

Stiles looks into Lydia's eyes the entire time he speaks. The admiration in his voice emboldens her, and she nestles her face into the crook of his neck. Without thinking, she nuzzles his pulse point with the tip of her nose. Maybe it's her way of telling him, that his earlier gesture did not go unnoticed. Or, perhaps it comes from her need to confirm that his heart is still pumping life's blood throughout his body.

As quickly as it transpires, Lydia worries that it was too much, that she is crossing an already blurred line in the sand. But Stiles almost reflexively grips her tighter at the contact and she feels a nervous laugh get caught in his throat. It reminds her of what is most important: _Stiles is real, he's alive, he's here,_ she reminds herself, silently thanking both Claudia and Noah Stilinski for bringing him into the world and whatever higher power is responsible for allowing her to breathe the same air he is breathing.

"…I will…yeah…love you too…bye." Stiles returns the phone to his pocket and his right hand to Lydia's waist. "My dad wanted me to tell you how glad he is that you're okay."

She tucks her hands into the collar of his red and black plaid shirt. The love and desire that is stirring beneath her ribs leaves Lydia her wondering if it is physically possible to dissolve into another human being, just so you would never have to be apart.

Just as she contemplates asking Stiles to stay with her, Lydia's rational side takes over, cajoling the difficult but appropriate next few words to pass her lips. "He must be worried about you too. I bet he would feel better if he saw you… I'll be okay here."

Stiles looks decidedly disappointed – brows ever so slightly furrowed, eyes shifting downward, lips gathering on one side of his mouth as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Are you sure? I could stay until you fall asleep."

Lydia loathes herself for what she is about to say next. She wants nothing more than to tell him to stay, to crawl in bed with him, to have him hold her until the shadows on her berry colored walls are replaced with glowing rays of morning sunlight and the ceiling is splattered with rainbows – but she knows it is important, for both of them, to let him go.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'd rather have you here but, I think I should try on my own." The first part of her statement is a falsehood. She is not even remotely certain that she will be okay without him. But the second part is the absolute truth – though she wants him to stay, she needs to prove to herself that she can manage on her own, and as unaware of it as he might be, Stiles has given her the courage to do so.

"I get that," he replies; as always, the epitome of understanding.

"I'll walk you out," she sighs.

* * *

 **2:59 AM**

Stiles hesitates by the front door, then wraps his arms around her once more. Lydia is the first to let go in this instance, but the moment she looks at him, her eyes fix on the tempting curve of his cupid's bow. Her need to kiss him is so strong that her chest hurts. However, instead of letting the pain weaken her, she redirects the energy to contemplate how amazing it will be when it finally happens. She pictures it in her mind's eye, encouraged that it will happen in the near future.

"I'll call you tomorrow…and you know…if you change your mind – no matter what time it is – I'll come back," he promises her. He drops a quick kiss on her cheek. It falls dangerously close to her mouth, which consequently, sets the butterflies free in her stomach…again. Then, he takes one more long look at her before gliding out the door.

Lydia waits in the threshold watching until the Jeep's taillights are no longer in sight. It is peculiar to recall that a few hours earlier were some of the worst moments of her life. Being alone with Stiles has had a healing influence. He wiped her tears, he listened, and he said all the right words to comfort her. Then he picked up all the broken pieces of her heart and masterfully began fusing them together. His promises restored the balance and give her hope. This time, she is sure it will not falter. Even in his absence, his warmth remains. It gives her faith that everything will work out because their connection only seems to be solidifying. They are so close now – so close to where they should be. Lydia can feel it in her bones. All she has to do is wait. The rest is up to Stiles…and that is a reassuring thought.

She goes up to her room and takes out her journal, sincerely intending to write down exactly how she feels and what Stiles means to her. It is something she tried to do several months ago, after their panic attack kiss, but the task is presently just as difficult. So instead, she sets the journal aside, picks up her sketchbook, and begins to map out a new image on the page.


	9. Be Still

**Refers to Episode:** The Tell (01x05)

 **Two Days Later: 9:18 AM**

Lydia abruptly opens her eyes to the sound of her mother's voice and a knock at her door. Her bedroom is bathed in the glow of morning sunlight and the fragrance of lilac-scented detergent drifts from her pillow case. Both coax her senses awake as she turns over, rubbing her tired eyes to clear them. Drowsiness is replaced with alarm as she realizes that the break from their normal Saturday routine might mean something is wrong. In truth, her mother hardly ever wakes her. Beyond the fact that Lydia is not a morning person, Natalie is aware of how poorly her daughter has been sleeping of late and generally doesn't prevent her from getting a few extra hours whenever possible. Before Lydia can ask what happened, she hears her mother's voice a second time.

"Sweetheart…are you up?"

Alarm is quickly exchanged for irritation as she processes that her mother's voice is calm. She attempts to speculate why her mother would feel it was necessary to prematurely tear her from the first good dream she had in months.

"What the hell…" she grumbles, looking over at Prada, who sits at the foot of the bed with her head sympathetically cocked to one side and her ears perked attentively.

"Lydia…Stiles is here to see you."

Her eyes widen. Those few words immediately snap her from the unpleasant mood that was developing. She sits up, combing her hair with her fingers and kicking the covers aside.

"Stiles, come in," she calls, with a much-improved tone in her voice.

The door opens slowly. "Hi," he greets shyly, still hanging in the threshold.

At the sound of Stiles's voice, Prada leaps from the bed and bounds over to greet him. She stands on her hind legs, tapping on his knee with her front paws and softly barking until he picks her up and gives her a cuddle.

"Aww…hi sweet girl. Did you miss me?"

The pup nuzzles his neck contentedly, and Lydia watches the scene with a smile. _Well,_ she thinks, _at least one of us is capable of expressing how she feels about him._

"She doesn't do that with just anyone, you know. She must really adore you."

"A lot more than you probably do right now. I'm sorry to wake you. I know you hate it when…"

 _Of course he knows that about me. He remembers everything_.

She bites her bottom lip to keep from smiling too broadly as the fluttering in her stomach flares. "I don't mind," she says, and as the words leave her mouth, Lydia realizes that she really doesn't mind at all. In fact, she wouldn't mind seeing Stiles first thing in the morning every day.

"You don't?" he replies, scrunching up his face in doubt.

She loves it when he does that.

"In that case, what are you still doing in bed? The rest of the world has been up for hours," he teases as he massages Prada's ears.

"I think you'll find that the rest of the world has _not_ been up for hours because in Australia it is just after 2 AM – tomorrow of course, and in Hawaii it is only around 6 AM," she counters, matter-of-factly.

He sets a squirming Prada down and smirks. "I stand corrected."

"Anyway, I don't mind…as long as it's you who is waking me up. How are you?"

He blinks a few times looking skeptical, then shrugs and walks towards the bed. "I'm alright…considering it's been an especially crazy few weeks…you know, compared to the terrifying, gut-wrenching, baseline of crazy we normally deal with."

"To say the least…" she remarks with a sigh.

"How about you? Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah, better than I have in a while." _Almost as well as I did with your arms around me,_ she recalls, patting the bed inviting him to sit down next to her. "What brings you by?"

"Well…I missed you," he answers, running a hand through his hair.

"You did?"

"Yeah. How long has it been…a week…a month?"

She purses her lips. "Closer to 30 hours…but who's counting? I missed you too." She notices how easily the words skid across her lips and it is liberating. "What's that?" she inquires, sparkling green eyes peering into the large gift bag he is carrying.

He takes his place next to her, ducking in to press a kiss to her cheek that makes her heart skip a few beats. It appears to happen quite naturally but, at the same time, Stiles looks as though he surprises himself when he does it. Nervously he clears his throat, "I…uh…brought you a couple of things."

"Really?...Can I see?" She lights up like a firefly, not bothering to disguise her excitement, mainly because she loves opening gifts from Stiles. They are, by far, the most thoughtful and meaningful.

"Okay, well the first one isn't wrapped but…" he begins, lifting a bundle from the bag.

"It's your sweatshirt?" she says curiously.

"Yeah, but it's not only that. I know we talked about it the other night, but I'm serious about spending more time together, and I want you to keep it as a reminder."

"Stiles…thank you," she smiles, eyes already shimmering with tears as she accepts the sweatshirt and hugs it to her chest.

"Wait…no tears yet – or you won't be able to see the second one."

"Okay, I'll wait." She dabs at the corners of her eyes and sets the gift next to her on the bed. Prada takes advantage of the opportunity and quickly curls up on the soft pile of fabric. "There's no way you're ever getting that back now," Lydia points out.

"That works for me." He grins, reaching back into the gift bag to reveal a cube-shaped box.

"Oohh…it's heavy. What is it?" she asks as he hands it to her.

"Just a little something I saw yesterday. I was driving past the bluff, and when I stopped for some coffee…I passed this shop. There it was in the window. It made me think of…well, you'll see. Go ahead and open it."

Lydia starts to methodically loosen the ruby red bow and floral embossed wrapping paper from the box, stopping to lift her head only when the bed starts shaking, as Stiles quakes with laughter.

Her eyebrows furrow with confusion. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Stiles! What?" she said, pouting and jabbing his arm with her thumb.

"Ouch!" he exclaims, still chuckling. "Okay, it's just…I've never seen anyone open a gift as slowly as you. It's infuriating—"

She opens her mouth to protest, "I don't want to ruin the paper. It's pretty."

"I wasn't finished. It's also probably one of the most adorable sights on the planet."

She flashes a signature look his way and continues with her work, finally uncovering the box and opening the lid. When Lydia sees what is inside, her heart stills. It is a gorgeous snow globe that depicts Crescent Bluff in the springtime, complete with blossoming cherry trees and Beacon Hills in the forefront. As she whirls the globe in her hands, tiny petals swirl and scatter around, just as they had a few weeks ago.

Stunned, she puts her fingers to her lips, mist accumulating in her eyes once again.

"You don't like it," he worries aloud, voice and face riddled with disappointment.

"What? No, I love it," she whispers breathlessly, placing a hand on his leg.

"You do?"

She moves her hand to his hair, adjusting a few strands that have gone astray, then she repositions her palm over his heart. The immediate rapid thumping beneath his ribs gives her the assurance she needs to voice her truth. "Yeah, I do. It's the best gift I've ever received…aside from having you in my life."

"Lydia, you mean that."

It isn't a question, but she nods to confirm anyway. Then she carefully places the snow globe on the night stand next to her crystal lamp and turns back to him.

"That night, the entire day really, was one of the best I can remember. When we were dancing, I wished I could capture that moment, so I would have it with me…always. Stiles, I'm not sure how you do it, but you always seem to know exactly what I need."

She leans in to hug him, cramming every bit of love she has inside. When he returns the embrace, she feels the tether not only tightening, but shifting and realigning everything back into place.

"It was one of my best days too." He agrees, pulling her into his chest and tucking his face into her neck.

For a few moments neither of them move.

"Lydia…this feels so good," Stiles sighs. "There was a time when I didn't think it was possible for us to be close like this."

The guilt that strikes her in that moment is immeasurable. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the photo of Stiles and herself that Allison had given her. She can practically hear her dear friend's sweet voice encouraging her to speak up.

"That's my fault," she confesses, pulling back to look at Stiles.

"That's not what I—" he starts to explain, but Lydia put her fingertips across his lips to silence him.

"I know, but I need to say this. It's long overdue." She lets her fingers drop from his face and holds his hands. "Stiles, your presence in my life is more than I ever expected – more than I ever hoped for. I wasn't used to someone being there for me…not without them wanting something in return, and certainly not without them leaving or blaming me when things were anything less than easy. For a long time, I thought – this is how it is, people let you down, you can't rely on anyone but yourself. Then there you were…every single time I needed someone, without fail. You listened to me, you saw things in me that no one else has even cared to look for, you made me less afraid to be myself. I never knew it could be like that." She pauses, watching as is eyes search her face. "But even when I saw how different you are…I wouldn't let myself trust it. You seemed too good to be true. So, I kept distance between us…I thought I needed to protect myself, but all I did was hurt us both, and I'm so incredibly sorry. Can you ever forgive me?" She holds her breath waiting for his response.

He closes his eyes for a second and when he reopens them, the gold flecks Lydia loves so much are instantly brighter. "There's nothing to forgive. Trust is not something that comes easily to me either. I know how badly you've been treated…hell, I saw some of it…first-hand…and it means the world to me that you let me in. I didn't mind waiting because you are worth every second of it." He lifts her hands to his lips, kissing them one at a time. "Hey look, we ended up here anyway, and Lydia, my life is so much better because of you – I promise I'm going to make sure you never doubt that."

"Speaking of promises…" Lydia tells him, "…I have one more to make." A sudden flush of nervousness sweeps over, making her heart stutter and sending tremors throughout her petite frame. Despite the way her body is reacting, somehow it still feels right. She ignores the urge to look away and steadies her shaking hands on his strong shoulders.

"What's that?" he replies, automatically picking up on her tension and rubbing her lower back to soothe her.

"I promise I will always remind you how much you mean to me…because Stiles, you do…so much, and I do a terrible job of showing it, but _please_ …tell me you understand that."

Stiles moves his hands to the sides of her face, wiping fresh tears from her pink cheeks. "I do. I think I really do now." He touches his forehead to hers. "When we were together, after…what happened in the school, I felt it. There were other times, before that, when we were alone…and you would say something or look at me a certain way. Part of me always thought I was looking too hard, or seeing what I wanted to see…but it was all real though, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it's real. _We_ are real," she says, rising to her knees, clutching his shirt in her fists, and watching his expression color to one of hopeful curiosity.

"Was it real too, when you told me you love me?"

Her eyes widen in shock.

"That day you came to me, I heard you but…I thought I was dreaming."

If denial is an option, she wants nothing to do with it. Lydia has waited and now Stiles is ready. "You weren't dreaming. I said it and I do. Stiles, I love you…I'm completely _in love_ with you…everything about you."

"You love me?"

"So much…and I wanted to tell you so many times, but I was foolish and scared, and then I thought you didn't want to hear it."

"You love me."

"Yes."

Time stops. Lydia's stills. Stiles is staring at her – awestruck and blinking away tears. Then he lights the match and sets her heart on fire. She can scarcely count to three before his head tilts and his lips are against hers, both stealing and giving her breath. And it is perfect – slow at first, then quickly intensifying. His lips are even softer, and he tastes even better than she remembers. Their mouths fit together like puzzle pieces. Together at last. There is no shock, no hesitation, no confusion; only trust, and need, and pure love.

His hands travel. One at her waist, towing her even closer. The other massaging the nape of her neck, fingers winding into her hair. Lydia relaxes into him, palms sliding down his chest and abdominals, wandering underneath faded cotton in search of his smooth warm skin. Stiles groans into her mouth, dragging her into his lap, and crushing her body to his, until she can hardly tell where he ends and she begins, and still she wants to be closer.

Miraculously, his kiss, his touch, his warmth unburdens her – making her lighter than air. If his gravity were not anchoring her so securely, Lydia thinks she might float away and spend the rest of the day lost amongst the clouds, aching to get back to him. Her head is spinning, and she is sozzled with unequivocal love for him in the best imaginable way.

They reluctantly part, foreheads touching, each struggling to catch their breath and regain composure. Lydia slowly opens her eyes to find that Stiles is already gazing at her with the same smoldering desire he had weeks ago, when they were tangled up in her bed.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah, Lydia."

"Wow."

"Yeah," he replies, swallowing with difficulty.

"Are you okay?"

"Just trying to figure out if I'm awake or not."

"You're awake. I promise," she assures him, caressing his face with her fingertips.

"In that case, I'm never going to sleep again."

He gives her a chaste kiss, then nudges the tip of her nose with his own.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm," he answers with a smile, leaning in for two more kisses on the lips, another on her cheek, and several on her neck that make her limbs go weak.

Lydia's heart soars with more love for him as she notes that each of his tender kisses are strategically placed over the myriad of bruises on her throat; bruises that have altered in shade from crimson to indigo since the last time they were together. She closes her eyes, so she can focus more intently on the feeling of his lips on her skin. "Never mind. Just keep doing that."

He lets out a breathy laugh, breeze cooling the damp skin of her neck where his lips had been. "What is it?" he asks softly.

"I really hate to bring this up, especially right now…" Stiles is peppering kisses all over her collarbone. "…because right now is completely amazing and I don't want to ruin it…"

Tilting back to meet her verdant eyes, "Lydia, go ahead… You can ask me anything."

"What about…you and…I mean, I know you wouldn't be kissing me if…but you never said…"

His face grows solemn as he realizes what she is grasping to verbalize. "You're right. I should have told you. I don't know why I didn't…but it's over – has been for a while. I tried to make it work with her, but it never felt right. I thought it was what I should want…that I could be satisfied being your friend, but I got so tired of pretending. It went against every instinct I have. Nothing made that clearer than almost dying. I spent what could have been my last moments thinking of you, and it told me everything I needed to know. Whatever distance was between us, I could never let go of you…of hoping we could be together."

"Didn't you ever want to give up on me?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Why?"

"Because no one has ever made me feel the way you do – so alive because of you…so aware that loving you is the main reason I get out of bed in the morning…and when you find what we have, nothing else will do."

He punctuates each statement with a kiss, the last one placed at the corner of her mouth, just below her bottom lip, lingering in a way that underscores every word he said. It evokes the most intense feelings she has ever experienced.

He moves close enough to whisper in her ear, "And because it's you, Lydia. It's _always_ been you."

Unable to find words, she drops her head, smiling into his shoulder. They hold tightly to each other for a while before lying down together; her head against his chest, his cheek against her forehead, their limbs tangled together. As Stiles runs his hands through her long satiny tresses, Lydia knows she has never been happier. She watches as sunlight illuminates the water in her snow globe and remembers what it was like to dance with her best friend, her love, _her Stiles_ – moon and the stars above, glowing lights beneath, petals swirling, and his comforting warmth surrounding her, just as it is now.

"What do you want to do today?" he asks.

"That depends…on you," she replies, tilting her head up to kiss him _. She can do that now. Whenever she wants_.

"Yeah?…Then I think today is the perfect day to make good on some promises. How about we spend it together?…Just us."

She beams, dimples impressed into each side of her peaches and cream complexion. "What should we do first?" she asks.

His eyes ignite to amber as he tenderly sweeps her hair behind her shoulder. "Anything, nothing, everything…but let's just be still for a bit longer."

"Mieczyslaw Stilinski wants to be still?"

"That's your influence on me. With you in my arms, I can be…for a while anyway."

"Then that sounds perfect."

They stay in their comfortable silence. Lydia leans into Stiles, nuzzling his neck with her freckled nose and weaving her dainty hands into the front of his shirt. She inhales deeply, fully, completely – filling her lungs with him and letting his essence infuse into every part of her, making her more certain of their love by the second.

As Stiles holds her, she listens to her favorite melody – the sound of his heart. Every beat carrying a memory – of glances and stares, of touches both feathery soft and penetratingly tight, of faint whispers and unbridled declarations, of heartbeats stopping and starting, of breaths and breathlessness, of tears withheld and set free, of secret smiles and uncontrollable laughter, of searching and finding, of closing the distance and figuring it all out – a symphony of white petals fluttering and falling into place.

"So beautiful," he tells her, catching a stray tear with his index finger and kissing the stain it leaves on the apple of her cheek. "Those are happy tears…right?"

"The happiest."

"What are you thinking about?"

"I don't know. I love you…I forget the rest."

He smiles that gorgeous astonished smile of his. Then he hugs the warmth into her and kisses the rest of her tears away.

Being with Stiles brings Lydia a peace she hasn't known in her life. At last, she is back in the nook – and it has never felt better.

She knows that they are always better together, rather than apart. Her love for him makes her vulnerable yet strong, afraid yet fearless, and it grounds her while still offering her freedom. Her love for him gives her the courage to open doors, lifts the fog to enhance her senses, and extinguishes her doubts to awaken hope.

People are flawed, they inevitably let her down, hurt her, abandon her – but not Stiles. He is the exception to every rule she thought existed. She never imagined being able to rely on, to connect with, or to want someone so profoundly – but she does. She never meant to let anyone become this important to her – but he has. Stiles has the ability to take Lydia's heart places she never dreamed she wanted to go and of making her want to stay there forever.


End file.
